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THE TWITCHELL FAMILY AT BREAKFAST.— Page 85 




THE LIVELIES, 


OTHER SHORT STORIES. 



SARAH WINTER KELLOGG. 

'( 



PHILADELPHIA 

J, B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1875. 






CONTENTS. 


PAGB 


THE LIVELIES 3 

DESHLER & DESHLER 29 

WHEN I WAS A BOARDER 57 

/ HER CHANCE . . . • 71 

/MR. TWITCHELL’S INVENTIONS 80 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 


THE LIVELIES. 


IN TWO PARTS.— I. 


“T^rHAT under the canopy is all 

VV that hammering at the door?” 
said Mrs. Lively, glancing up from her 
crocheting. 

Master Napoleon Lively, the person ap- 
pealed to, was sucking a lemon through 
a stick of candy. He took this from his 
mouth, said, ‘‘ Dunno,” and then re- 
turned it to the anxious aperture. 

‘‘And don’t care,” said Mrs. Lively 
with spirit. ‘‘ Any other child in the city 
would go to the door and find out what 
it means ; but you ! much you care to 
save your mother’s feet!” Gathering 
her ball of worsted with the crocheting 
in her left hand, she swept out of the 
room and through the hall to the front 
door. She pulled this open. There 
stood a man with hammer in hand. 

‘‘No harm to ye’s, marm,” he said. 
‘‘I’s jist afther puttin’ a bill on ye’s 
door ; for shure it’s to be sowld, that the 
house is.” 

‘‘ Sold I” cried Mrs. Lively. ‘‘ When ?” 

‘‘ Faith ! whiniver it may please a body 
to buy it,” was the definite reply. 

Mrs. Lively read the bill : ‘“ Six thou- 
sand dollars I’ Why the whole property 
isn’t worth six thousand, much less the 
lease for twelve years. Won’t the owner 
take less ?” 

‘‘It’s more than likely he would, 
’specially from the likes of ye’s. Shure 1 
folks most ginerly wants all they kin git, 
and ef they can’t git it they’ll be afther 
takin’ less. The gintleman says as it 
must be sold immadiate, for the owner 
is bruck to smitherations.” 

Here was prospective trouble. Mrs. 
Lively went down the doorsteps and 
along the paved walk to her husband’s 
office, in the front basement. The doc- 
tor laid down his pen, expecting a pa- 
tient, but, seeing that it was only his 
wife, resumed it. 

‘‘There’s a bill put up on our door: 
the house is for ‘sale — six thousand dol- 
lars. I’ll warrant it could be got for five ; 


I think it’s worth six, though. We may 
have to move out at a day’s notice, and 
we’ve just had this office newly papered, 
and the kitchen repainted, and, dear 
me ! just got those Brussels carpets down 
in the parlors. It’s too provoking ! I 
know those carpets ’ll have to be cut and 
slashed into ribbons to make them fit 
other rooms. I was afraid of that when 
I got them. Until you own a house we 
oughtn’t to get anything nice. But, oh 
dear 1 if I waited till we owned a home, 
I should go down to my grave on a two- 
ply. But where in the name of reason 
are we going ? There isn’t another va- 
cant house in this neighborhood that I’d 
live in. And just think of the damage 
to your practice in moving your office ! 
What are we going to do ? Why in the 
world don’t you say something ? Can’t 
you suggest something? One would 
think you hadn’t any interest in the 
matter. But it’s always the way. I’ve 
had to do all the planning for this fam- 
ily ever since I came into it, and I came 
into it before it was a family. Oh, you 
needn’t smile : I know you’re thinking 
that I haven’t given you a chance to say 
anything ; but I wouldn’t talk if you’d 
talk, and I wouldn’t bother myself about 
our arrangements if you would. It’s too 
provoking about this house. It just suits 
me ; there isn’t a thing about it I should 
wish to have altered.” 

‘‘Closets, little kitchen, back stairs,” 
said Napoleon, who had entered the 
office unobserved, and who had often 
heard his mother denounce the house 
as most inconvenient in these three par- 
ticulars. 

‘‘What have you come for?” the 
mother demanded sharply. ‘‘Go back 
to the sitting-room, and learn your geog- 
raphy lesson for to-morrow.” 

‘‘Have learnt it,” replied the imper- 
turbable Napoleon. 

‘‘Then go and get your arithmetic.” 

” Have got it.” 


3 


4 


THE LIVELIES. 


“Well, then, get your history.” 

“ Have.” 

“And your grammar and spelling and 
German — you’ve learned them all, have 
you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then go and take your walk.” 

“ Have.” 

“ For pity’s sake, what is it you haven’t 
done ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Every duty of life discharged, is it?” 
and Mrs. Lively smiled in spite of her- 
self. 

“ ’Cept eating.” 

“ Except eating ! Of course : I never 
knew a time in your life when you’d fin- 
ished up your eating. — What are you 
going to do about that bill ?” Mrs. Lively 
continued, turning to her husband. 

“ I can’t do anything about it except 
to leave it there,” replied the gentleman, 
smiling quietly. 

“ It’s exasperating,” cried the lady. I 
don’t see how I can ever give up this 
house.” 

“We might buy it,” said Dr. Lively. 
“I’ve been thinking about it for some 
time.” 

“ How can we ? Where’s the money ?” 

“ I have some in bank.” 

“You have, and you didn’t let me 
know it, you mean, stingy thing !” said 
Mrs. Lively between a pout and a smile. 
“ How much have you in bank ?” 

“Four or five thousand.” 

“Why, where did you get it ?” 

“Saved it.” 

“Why, you’ve always talked as poor 
as poverty, especially if I wanted a bon- 
net or anything— said you were barely 
making a living.” 

“No man is making a living till he 
can afford to own a home,” said the 
doctor, laying aside his pen. “ I’ll go 
and see the agent, and learn what we 
can get the house for.” 

“Well, beat him down : don’t give him 
six thousand for it, and don’t decide on 
anything till you’ve consulted me. After 
all, there are a good many things about 
this house that don’t suit me. Maybe, 
we can get a lot and build a house to 
suit us better for the same money.” 


“ Hardly,” said Dr. Lively. 

“Well, really, I don’t krww about 
buying this house,” said the lady in an 
undecided way. “I should like to be 
nearer church, and Nappy ought to be 
nearer his school.” 

“ But my practice is all in this neigh- 
borhood, and it’s a most excellent neigh- 
borhood — permanent : the people own 
their houses. To go into a new neigh- 
borhood would be like going into a new 
city. I should have to build up a prac- 
tice with new people.” 

Dr. Lively saw the agent, and agreed 
to pay five thousand dollars in cash for 
the house, and five hundred in one 
year, at six per cent. “ Now, my dear,” 
he said to his wife, “we’ve got to save 
that five hundred dollars this year.” 

“ Don’t I know that ? I suppose, now, 
I shall have to hear that ding-donged at 
me for the next twelve months. You’ll 
fling it at me every time I ask for change. 
I dare say before the year is out I shall 
repent in sackcloth and ashes that we 
ever bought the house. Save it! Of 
course I’ve got to save it. It never 
enters your head that it’s possible for 
you to save anything.” 

“Who saved the five thousand ask- 
ed the doctor quietly. 

“For pity’s sake, how could I save it 
if you never gave it to me ? I didn’t 
even know you’d made it. I’m sure my 
dress has been shabby enough to suit 
the stingiest mortal in existence. There 
isn’t a woman in our church that dresses 
plainer than I do.” 

“As you are going out,” said the doc- 
tor, changing the subject, “ you can call 
at the savings bank and get the money : 
the agent will be here in the morning 
with the papers.” 

Mrs. Lively came home in due time 
and displayed ten five-hundred-dollar 
bills. “They offered to give me a 
cheque,” she said, “but these bills look 
so much richer.” 

“ But a cheque is safer in case of ac- 
cident,” the doctor suggested. 

“What in the world’s going to happen 
to-night ? You are such a croaker, al- 
ways anticipating trouble I” , 

“Oh no; I don’t anticipate a fire or 


THE LIVELIES. 


a robbery before morning,” the doctor 
said. 

That night, when Mrs. 'Lively went to 
bed, she took the doctor’s purse from 
his pocket and put it under her pillow. 
All night long she was dreaming about 
those bills. The next morning, when 
she woke, her first act was to look for 
the purse. There it was, just where she 
had placed it. She returned it to her 
husband’s pocket, and then dressed with- 
out waking him, for he had been called 
up that night to see a patient. 

Very promptly at eight o’clock the 
agent for the house presented himself in 
Dr. Lively’s office. Who ever knew an 
agent behind time when a sale was to 
be consummated ? 

Dr. Lively looked over the papers 
carefully, and, being satisfied, opened 
his purse to make the cash payment. 
If the agent’s eyes had not been eagerly 
watching the purse for the forthcoming 
bills, but instead had been fixed on Dr. 
Lively’s face, they would have seen in 
it first a look utterly blank, then one of 
intense alarm. 

“ Excuse me a moment,” he said as he 
closed his purse. He left the office and 
hurried to Mrs. Lively’s sitting-room. 

“Well, is the deed done?” the lady 
asked with the complacent air of a land- 
holder. 

“What did you do with the money?” 
the doctor asked anxiously. “ I thought 
you put it in my purse.” 

" I did,” replied Mrs. Lively, her eyes 
dilating with alarm. 

“It isn’t here,” the doctor asserted. 
“You must be mistaken.” 

“I am not mistaken,” said the lady, 
panting with alarm. “ I did put it in 
your purse. You’ve dropped it out 
somewhere.” 

“ That is impossible : I haven’t opened 
my purse since those bills were brought 
into the house until just now in my 
office. You must have put the bills 
somewhere else. Look in your purse.” 

“ I tell you I put the money in your 
purse,” replied Mrs. Lively with asperity, 
at the same time opening her purse with 
an impatient movement. “ It isn’t here : 
I knew it wasn’t. I tell you again I put 


5 

it in your purse, and you’ve dropped it 
out somewhere.” 

“ But I haven’t opened the purse till a 
moment since in my office,” the doctor 
reiterated. 

“Then you’ve dropped the bills in the 
office.” 

“ No, I have not. I was holding the 
purse over the table when I opened it, 
and I perceived at once that it was 
empty, even to my small change.” 

“Well, that shows that the money has 
been dropped out of the purse some time 
when you opened it. If I put the bills 
somewhere else, what’s become of the 
change ? You’ve lost it all out together, 
you see.” 

“Then it must be in the house some- 
where,” said the doctor, evidently stag- 
gered, “for I haven’t been out since 
those bills were brought home.” 

“Yes, you have,” urged Mrs. Lively 
from her vantage-ground. “You were 
called up last night to see that child on 
Morgan street.” 

“ But I didn’t lose it there. For when 
I wanted to make change for a five- 
dollar bill, I found that I hadn’t my 
purse ; and that reminds me, I found it 
in my pocket this morning, though it 
wasn’t there last night.” 

“ I can explain that,” said Mrs. Lively 
after a moment’s hesitation. “ I put the 
purse under my pillow last night, and 
returned it to your pocket this morning.” 

“Then of course you lost the money 
out,” said the doctor promptly. 

“ Of course ! I might have known you 
would lay it on me if there was a shad- 
ow of a chance. I had nothing in the 
world to do with the losing of that 
money.” 

“You ought to have got a cheque.” 

“Why. in Heaven’s name didn’t you 
tell me to ?” 

All this while the two had been look- ’ 
ing the room over, rummaging through 
drawers, looking on whatnots, brackets, 
shelves, etc. 

“Well, I can’t keep the agent waiting 
any longer,” said the doctor. “ I’ll tell 
him I’ll bring the money round to him;” 
and he left the room. 

“What are you standing there for?” 


6 


THE LIVELIES. 


said Mrs. Lively, whirling sharply on Na- 
poleon. “ Go, and look for that money.” 

‘‘Where ?” 

‘‘ How do I know where ? Look any- 
where and everywhere. There’s no tell- 
ing where your father lost it. Napoleon 
Lively,” she exclaimed, a sudden idea 
seeming to strike her, ‘‘ what did you do 
with that money ?” 

‘‘Nothing,” answered the youth with 
cool indifference. 

‘‘ Where did you hide it ?” 

‘‘ Didn’t hide it.” 

His perfect nonchalance was irresist- 
ibly convincing. 

‘‘ Have you found it ?” said the doctor, 
re-entering the room. 

‘‘ Found it !” Mrs. Lively snapped out 
the words, and then her lips shut close 
together as if with the vehemence of the 
snapping. 

‘‘ Perhaps the house was entered last 
night,” suggested the doctor. 

‘‘I locked every door and window, 
and they were all locked this morning 
when I got up,” replied Mrs. Lively. 
“Perhaps you left the front door open 
when you went out in the night. I’ll 
warrant you did: it would be just like 
you.” 

“ I did not leave the door open,” re- 
plied the doctor. “I found it locked 
when I got back, and opened it with my 
night-key. Besides, I was not out of 
the house more than forty minutes, and 
you told me when I got back that you 
hadn’t been asleep.” 

“ I told you I had scarcely been asleep,” 
said Mrs. Lively. 

All that day the Lively household was 
in extreme commotion. Every bedstead 
was stripped naked, and each article of 
bedding was separately shaken in the 
middle of the room ; the contents of 
every drawer were turned out ; every 
piece of furniture was moved ; every 
floor was carefully swept. The house, 
in short, was turned inside out. Adver- 
tisements were put in the papers ; hand- 
some rewards were offered ; the police 
were notified of the loss. The detectives 
were of opinion that the house had been 
entered, but there was not the slightest 
clew to the burglars. 


It was Friday, the sixth of October, 
when the loss was discovered. On the 
seventh the house was again looked over, 
inch by inch. 

“You must have put that money some- 
where else than in my purse,” said Dr. 
Lively to his wife. “ Have you looked 
in the pockets of all your dresses ?” 

“ Don’t say to me again that I didn’t 
put that money in your purse,” said 
Mrs. Lively vehemently; “I won’t bear 
it. You might as well tell me that I 
don’t see you this minute. There never 
was anything in this world that makes 
me so tearing mad as to be contradicted 
about something that I perfectly well 
know. I’d go into any court and swear 
that I put that money in your purse ; 
and I don’t want to hear any more of 
your insinuations. Do you think I’ve 
stolen the money ? You’ve lost it out of 
the purse — that’s all there is about it. 
This house has no more been entered 
^ than I’ve been burglaring.^’ 

“ Then where’s the money ?” 

“How in the name of sense do you 
think I know ? I’d go and get it if I 
knew. Dear ! dear ! dear ! dear ! The 
savings of ten years gone in a night, 
after all my pinching! I’ve done my 
own work — ” 

“When you couldn’t get a girl,” said 
Napoleon. 

“ I’ve worn old-fashioned clothes ; I’ve 
twisted and screwed in every possible 
way to save that money — ” 

“Pa saved it,” was Napoleon’s emen- 
dation. 

“Well,” retorted the lady, “he’d bet- 
ter not have saved it : he’d better have 
let his family have it. What’s the use 
of saving money for burglars ?” 

“You think now that the burglars 
have it ?” said the doctor dryly. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake, hush I I don’t 
think anything about it. I believe I’m 
going insane. How in the universe 
we’re ever going to live is more than I 
can conceive.” 

“My dear, we are better off than we 
were ten years ago, for I yet have my 
practice, and we are as well off as you 
thought we were two days ago ; and you 
were happy then.” 


THE LIVELIES. 


7 


“ Happy !” There was a volume of 
bitter scorn in the word as Mrs. Lively 
uttered it. 

“Oh, my dear!” said the husband in 
a tone of piteous remonstrance. 

The next evening, which was Sunday, 
Dr. Lively and wife went to church, and 
heard a sermon by the Rev. Charles 
Hilmer from the words, “ Help one an- 
other.” 

“What’s the use of preaching such 
stuff?” said Mrs. Lively with petulance 
when they were out of church. “No- 
body heeds it. Who’s going to help us 
in our loss ?” ^ 

“ Our lesson from that sermon is, that 
we are to help others,” said the doctor. 

“We help others! I’d like to know 
what we’ve got to help others with I 
Five thousand dollars out of pocket I” 

“There’s a fire somewhere,” said the 
doctor as an engine whirled by them 
while they stood waiting for a car. 

The lady and gentleman proceeded 
to their home on the South Side, and 
went to bed, though the fire-bells were 
still ringing. About midnight they were 
roused by a violent ringing of the door- 
bell. Dr. Lively started up with a pa- 
tient on his mind. “ There’s a fire some- 
where,” he exclaimed immediately, per- 
ceiving the glare in the room. Mrs. 
Lively was out of bed in an instant. 

“ Where ? where’s the fire ?” she cried. 
“ Is the house afire ? I believe in my 
soul it is.” 

“No,” said Dr. Lively, who had gone 
to the window; “but there’s a tremen- 
dous fire to the south-west. The flames 
seem to be leaping from roof to roof. 
That was a policeman who rang us up. 
He seems to be waking all this neigh- 
borhood.” 

They dressed hurriedly, called up Na- 
poleon, and went out at the front door, 
and on with the stream toward the fire. 
The street was crowded with people, the 
air thick with noises, and everywhere it 
was as light as day. They passed on 
under the lurid heavens, and reached a 
hotel which stood open. Two streams 
of people were on the stairs— one hurry- 
ing down, the other going up for a view 
of the fire. Our party followed the 


stream up the stairs and on to the roof. 
It was crowded with spectators, all great- 
ly excited. Making their way to the 
front of the roof, our couple stood spell- 
bound by a vision which once seen could 
never be forgotten. It was like a look 
into hell. The whole fire seemed below 
them, a surging, tempest-lashed ocean 
of flame, with mile-long billows, mile- 
high breakers and mile-deep shadows. 
All about the flaming ocean, except to 
the leeward, was a sea of faces, white 
and upturned, and rapt as with some 
unearthly vision. Stretching out for 
miles were housetops swarming with 
crowds, gazing appalled at the spectacle 
in which the fate of every man, woman 
and child of them was vitally involved. 
At times the gale, with a strong, steady 
sweep, would level the billows of fire, 
and bear the current northward with the 
majestic flow of a great river. Then 
the flames would heave and part as with 
earthquake throes, dash skyward in 
jets and spouts innumerable, and pile 
up to the north-east mountains of fire 
that seemed to touch the heavens. 
Clouds of smoke obscured at times the 
view of the streets below, without making 
inaudible the roll of wheels, the beat of 
hoofs, the tramp of human feet, the cry 
of human voices, the scream of the en- 
gines, the thunder of falling buildings, 
the maniacal shriek of the gale, the 
Niagara-like roar of the fire ; and ever 
and anon, striking through all the tumult, 
the deep, solemn voice of the great 
court-house bell, and the one word it 
seemed to say to the trembling city — 
“ Doomed ! doomed I doomed.” 

“We must go home,” said Mrs. Lively 
in a lost, bewildered way. 

“Yes,” assented the doctor: “there is 
no safety this side the river. All the 
engines in creation couldn’t stop that 
fire. Why in God’s name don’t they 
pull down houses or explode them? 
Come 1” 

But the lady continued to gaze in a 
fascinated way at the unearthly specta- 
cle. It was all so wild, so awful, that the 
brain reeled. The doomed houses in 
the path of the fire seemed to her to be 
animate things — dumb, helpless, feeling 


8 


THE LIVELIES, 


creatures, that trembled and shrank as 
the flames reached out cruel fingers for 
them. She shook off the bewildered, 
dazed feeling, but it came again as the 
tempest of flame and smoke went racing 
to the north. Street and house and 
steeple and the vast crowds seemed sail- 
ing away on some swift crescent river 
to a great, vague, yawning blackness 
beyond. 

They hurried down into the street. 
Momently the crowds, the tumult, the 
terror were growing. Every house stood 
open, the interior as clear as at noonday. 
Men, women and children were moving 
about in eager haste, tearing up car- 
pets, lifting furniture and loading trucks. 
Ruffians were pushing in at the open 
doors, snatching valuables and insulting 
the owners. There was a hasty seizing 
of goods, and a wild dash into the street 
from imperiled houses, a shouting for 
trucks and carriages, piteous inquiries 
for absent friends, distressed cries for 
absent protectors, screams of little chil- 
dren, swift, wild faces pushing eagerly 
in this direction and that; oaths and 
prayers and shoutings ; women bowed 
beneath mattresses and heavy furniture ; 
wheels interlocking in an inextricable 
mass ; horses rearing and plunging in 
the midst of women separated from their 
husbands and little children from their 
mothers ; men bearing away their sick 
and infirm and their clinging little ones ; 
the shower of falling brands, and the 
roar of the oncoming flood of destruc- 
tion. 

In the next block but one to our 
doctor’s home a brand had lodged in 
the turret of a little wooden Catholic 
church, and, pinned there by the fierce 
gale, was being blown and puffed at as 
with a blowpipe. There was no time to 
lose. While he stopped on the street 
to secure a truckman, Mrs. Lively hur- 
ried in to get together the most valuable 
of their belongings. For a time she pro- 
ceeded with considerable system, tying 
in sheets and locking in trunks the best 
of the bedding and other necessaries. 
Then she got together some family rel- 
ics, looked longingly at some paintings, 
took down a quaintly - carved Black- 


Forest clock from its shelf, and then set 
it back, feeling that something else would 
be more needed. But as the roar of the 
tempest came nearer she was seized 
with panic, and no longer knew what 
she did. When Dr. Lively came in to 
announce the dray at the door he found 
his wife making for a trunk with a tin 
baking-pan in one hand and a cloth 
duster in the other. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Priscilla, don’t 
pack up such trash !’’ he cried. “ Have 
you got up the parlor carpets ?’’ 

“ Oh dear ! no : I never thought of 
them. Nappy might get them up if he 
would. Napoleon ! Where under the sun 
is that boy ? Napoleon !’’ she called. 

“Here,” answered Napoleon through 
a mouthful of cake. He entered with a 
basket in his hand. 

“Why in the world don’t you go to 
work and help ?’’ 

“Am helping.’’ 

“What are you doing ?’’ 

“ Packing.’’ 

“ Packing what. I’d like to know ?’’ 

“Victuals.’’ 

“Of course! I might have known 
without asking. What in the world shall 
we want with victuals, in the street with- 
out roof or bed ?’’ 

But the father told him to hold on to 
his basket. 

“You may be sure he’ll do that,’’ said 
the mother. “What in the world are 
all those boxes you’ve got there?’’ she 
asked as she dragged a sheet full of 
articles to the front door. 

“Some things from my office,’’ the 
doctor replied hurriedly. 

“ I just know they’re those plants and 
fossils and casts and miserable things 
that have been in my way everlastingly. 

I was in hopes they’d get burnt up.’’ 

Without heeding his wife. Dr. Lively 
disappeared into the house for some- 
thing else. 

“ Take those boxes off,’’ she said to 
the drayman. 

“ Blast my eyes if I’m going to be lift- 
ing boxes off and on here all night for 
any darned twenty - five dollars that 
ever was paid. Hurry your things on 
here, or, by Godfrey ! I’ll dump ’em and 


THE LIVELIES. 


9 


be off. Blast me if I’ll wait here a sec- 
ond beyond five minutes.” 

Just then the doctor reappeared, and 
began to turn over the contents of a 
sheet before tying it. ‘‘Oh, my dear,” 
he cried in a tone of mingled remon- 
strance and despair, ‘‘we can’t spare 
room for these worthless traps and he 
pitched out a pair of vases, two pin- 
cushions, a dustpan, a sieve, a kitchen 
apron, a statuette of Psyche, a pair of 
plaster medallions, Our Mutual Friend 
in paper cover, a pink tarletan dress, a 
dirty tablecloth, an ice pitcher, a flat- 
iron, a mosquito - bar, a hoop-skirt, a 
backgammon-board and a bottle of hair 
restorative. 

‘‘ They’re worth a thousand times more 
than those old rocks and things you’ve 
loaded up the dray with,” Mrs. Lively 
maintained. 

At last the truck moved off, followed 
by Dr. Lively, shouting to his wife to 
come on and not lose sight of him. Mrs. 
Lively seized a carpet-bag in which she 
had packed her silver and jewelry, and 
rushed into the street, screaming to Na- 
poleon to follow and not lose sight of 
her. Napoleon hung his basket of pro- 
visions on his arm and stuck his hat on 
his head. Then he went to the pantry 
and poked up cookies through a lift be- 
tween his hat and forehead, until there 
was no vacant space remaining in the 
top of his hat. Then he crammed a 
cake in his mouth, filled his pockets and 
both hands, and left the rest to their 
doom. 

The wind, which for a time had blown 
steadily to the north-east, was now seem- 
ingly bewildered. At times there would 
be a dead calm, as though the fierce gale 
had tired itself out ; then it would sweep 
roaring down a street with the force of a 
hurricane, and go shrieking through an 
alley as though sucked through a tube - 
again, it seemed to strike from every 
quarter of the compass, while anon a 
vast whirlwind was formed, swirling and 
circling till one half expected to see the 
glowing masses of masonry lifted and 
whirled like autumn leaves. 

On went our party as fast as the press 
would permit. One bundle after an- 


other, as it took fire from falling brands, 
was pitched off the truck and left to 
burn out on the pavement ; and to these 
bundle-pitchings Mrs. Lively kept up a 
running accompaniment of groans and 
ejaculations. When they had reached 
the corner of Washington and La Salle, 
the truckman signified his intention of 
throwing off his load. 

“They’ll be safe here,” he said. Dr. 
Lively, too, thought this, for he did not 
believe that the flames could pass the 
double row of fireproof buildings on La 
Salle street and others in the neighbor- 
hood. But as he was bound for a friend’s 
house across the river, on the North Side, 
he would of course have preferred to 
take his goods with him, even if there 
had been no danger from pillagers. But 
no arguments or persuasions, even when 
offered in the shape of the gentleman’s 
last five-dollar bill, could induce the 
drayman to cross the river. He dump- 
ed on the sidewalk all that remained of 
the Livelies’ earthly possessions, and dis- 
appeared in the press. 

Again and again, but all in vain. Dr. 
Lively offered his forlorn hope, his one 
greenback, to procure the transporta- 
tion of his goods across the river. But 
that five-dollar bill was so scorned and 
snubbed by the ascendent truckmen 
that the doctor found himself smiling at 
his conceit that the poor, despised thing, 
when returned to his purse, went sneak- 
ingly into the farthest and deepest corner. 

As he could not leave his goods, it 
was decided that Mrs. Lively and Na- 
poleon should cross the river without 
him. He sat down on Mrs. Lively’s big 
Saratoga trunk to await developments. 
He did not have to wait long. The 
double row of fireproofs, which was to 
have held the fire at bay, was attack- 
ed and went down ; then the Chamber 
of Commerce melted away; shortly after 
the court-house was assailed. Dr. Live- 
ly gave up his trunks and bundles as 
lost, and as too insignificant, in that wild 
havoc, to be worth a sigh. He did feel 
a desire, however, for a clean shirt in 
which to face the heavens. Then, too, 
he wanted to bring something through 
the fire — to preserve something which 


10 


THE LIVELIES. 


would serve as a memento of his ante- 
igneous life. The best thing in the way 
of a relic which he could secure was a 
case of sea-weeds mounted on cards. 
He made a hasty bundle of these and a 
few articles of underwear, tucked it under 
his arm, and then looked about him, 
considering which way he should go. 
The wind had again risen to a hurricane. 
All around him was a storm of fire- 
brands, as though the flakes in a snow- 
storm had been turned to flame. Great 
sheets of blazing felt-roofing were driving 
overhead. Everywhere timbers and ma- 
sonry were falling : walls a half square 
in length came down with the thunder’s 
crash, and in such quick succession that 
the noise ceased to be noticed. Thou- 
sands of frantic people were pushing 
wildly in every direction. The crowds 
seemed bewildered, lost, frenzied. And 
what wonder 1 The world seemed to be 
burning up, the heavens to be melting : 
a star looked like a speck of blood, so 
that the whole canopy of heaven when 
visible seemed blood-spattered. 

As the doctor was gazing at the ter- 
rible spectacle the cry ran from mouth 
to mouth that all the bridges across the 
west branch of the river were burned. 
There were thousands of spectators from 
the West Division who had come over 
to witness the melting away of the South 
Side business-palaces. If the bridges 
were burned, there remained but one 
avenue by which they could reach their 
homes. There were cries of “ The tun- 
nel ! the tunnel!” a panic and a grand 
rush, in which everybody was borne 
westward toward Washington street tun- 
nel. Dr. Lively found himself forced 
into the tunnel. It was crowded with 
two streams of wildly-excited people 
moving in opposite directions. One was 
rushing to the rescue of property on the 
South Side or to see the fire — the other, 
to get away from it. Most of these lat- 
ter were carrying articles of furniture 
and bales of goods, or they were wheel- 
ing loaded barrows. Everybody was 
crowding and pushing. Our doctor had 
made his way through about one-third 
of the tunnel when suddenly every light 
went out. The great gasometer of the 


South Side gas-works had exploded. 
He was under the river, in the bowels 
of the earth, in the midst of that wild 
crowd of humanity, and in utter dark- 
ness. “There will be a panic,” he 
thought : “ all the weak will be overrun 
and trampled to death. God help them 
and help us all I” Then there came to 
him a flash of inspiration : “ Keep to the 
right!” he shouted, "to the right!” 
“ Keep to the right !” repeated an abet- 
ting voice. “To the right !” “Keep to 
the right!” “ Right ! right !” The bless- 
ed words ran along from one end of the 
dark way to the other. Then a hush 
seemed to fall on the lips as though 
the hearts were at prayer, and the two 
streams moved along like processions 
through the dark valley of the shadow 
of death. 

Facing about. Dr. Lively squeezed 
his way through a dense throng on North 
Water street bridge till he gained the 
North Division. Here he sat down on 
the steps of a warehouse to take breath, 
and looked back on the scene he had 
left. The fire had reached the river, 
which reflected the lurid horror above, 
and seemed a stream of molten metal, 
or a current of glowing lava poured from 
some wide rent in the earth. Struggling 
human creatures in the blazing, hissing, 
sputtering waters realized Dante’s im- 
aginings of tortured, writhing souls on 
the red floor of hell. 

Tired and faint. Dr. Lively pressed on 
to the north. He was not long in learn- 
ing that the fire was already raging in 
the doomed North Division, and that the 
waterworks were disabled. Reaching 
the house of his friend, where his family 
had taken refuge, he found them all in- 
formed of the peril to the North Side, 
and getting ready to move. His friend 
decided to take refuge on the prairies. 
“There we can keep up the race,” he 
said. 

“I’m going where I can get water,” 
said Dr. Lively : “ it’s the only thing 
under heaven that this fire-fiend won’t 
eat. There isn’t a suburb but may be 
burned. I’m going toward the lake.” 
So he took possession of his wife and 
boy and started for Lincoln Park. There 


THE LIVELIES, 


II 


were lights in all the houses, and eager, 
swift-moving figures were seen through 
the doors and windows : everywhere 
people were getting their things into the 
streets. Shortly after, the flames, it was 
noticed, were beginning to pale. A weird 
kind of light began to creep over burn- 
ing house, blazing street and ruined 
wall. The day was dawning. With a 
kind of bewildered feeling our friends 
watched the coming on of the strange, 
ghostly morning, and saw the pale, sickly, 
shamefaced sun come up out of the lake. 
It was ten o’clock before they reached 
the old cemetery south of Lincoln Park. 
Hundreds had already arrived here with 
their belongings, representing every, ar- 
ticle that pertains to modern civilization. 
Parties were momently coming in with 
more loads. Here our friends halted. 
Mrs. Lively dropped down in a fugitive 
rocking-chair, thinking what a comfort 
it would be to go off into a faint. But 
without a pillow or salts or camphor it 
was a luxury in which she did not dare 
to indulge, though she had a physician at 
hand. Right in front of her she noticed 
a besmutched, red-eyed woman who had 
something familiar in her appearance. 
“ Why, it’s myself !” she said to her hus- 
band, pointing to a large plate mirror 
leaning against an old headstone. 

“Yes,” said the doctor smiling, “we 
all look like sweeps.” 

Napoleon seated himself on a grave 
and opened his lunch-basket. 

“ Did anybody ever ?” cried the moth- 
er. “This boy’s brought his basket 
through. There’s nothing in all the 
world except something to eat that he 
would have devoted himself to in this 
way.” 

“ Nothing could have proved more op- 
portune,” said the father. 

Then they ate their breakfast, sharing 
it with a little girl who was crying for 
her father, and with a lady who was car- 
rying a handsome dress-bonnet by the 
ribbons, and who in turn shared her 
portion with her poodle dog. They 
offered a slice of cake to a sad old gen- 
tleman sitting on an inverted pail with 
his hands clasped above a gold-headed 
cane, and his chin resting on them. He 


shook his head without speaking, and 
went on gazing in a dreary, abstracted 
way into the air, as though oblivious of 
everything around him. ‘“Though I 
make my bed in hell, behold. Thou art 
there,’ ” he said in slow measured solilo- 
quy. His lip began to quiver and the 
tears to stream down his furrowed face. 
Dr. Lively heard, and wiped his eyes on 
the back of his hand : he had nothing 
else to receive the quick tears. Just 
then a hearse with nodding black plumes 
came by loaded with boxes and bundles, 
on which were perched a woman and 
five children, the three youngest crowing 
and laughing in unconscious glee at 
their strange circumstances. This was 
followed by two buggies hitched togeth- 
er, both packed with women and chil- 
dren drawn by a single horse, astride of 
which was a lame man. 

“What is it, madam ?” said Dr. Live- 
ly to a woman who was wringing her 
hands and crying piteously. 

“Why, you see,” she said between 
her sobs, “me and Johnny made our 
livin’ a-seljin’ pop-corn ; and last night 
we had a bushel popped ready for the 
Monday’s trade ; and now it’s all gone : 
we’ve lost everything — all that beautiful 
corn : there wasn’t a single scorched 
grain.” 

“But think what others have lost — 
their beautiful homes and all their busi- 
ness — ” 

She suddenly ceased crying, and, 
turning upon him, said sharply, “We 
lost all we had : did they lose any more’n 
they had ?” 

A young man came pressing through 
the crowd, desperately clutching a pic- 
ture in a handsome gilt frame. Through 
the smoke and smutch which stained the 
canvas was seen a gray-haired, saintly 
woman’s head. 

“The picture of his mother,” thought 
the doctor with a swelling about his 
heart. 

“ I saved dese,” said a jolly-faced Ger- 
man, extending his two hands; “and 
dey is all I had when I come from de 
Faderland to Chicago. And saved you 
nothin’ ?” 

The man appealed to had about him 


12 


THE LIVELIES. 


three children and a pale delicate wo- 
man. 

“ I saved these,” he said with a ges- 
ture that was an embrace. “All the 
baby-faces we left hanging on the walls 
in the home where all were born.” 

Then the bearded lip quivered and 
the lids were dropped over the brimming 
eyes. The mother looked up with clear, 
unfaltering features, and with a light 
grateful, almost joyous, in her fine eyes, 
and said softly, “ But all the real faces 
we’ve brought along.” 

Then one of the little girls took up the 
story; “Oh, mother. Tommy’s' picture 
will be burned, and we can never get 
another. Tommy’s dead, you know,” 
she explained. 

The mother’s eyes grew misty, and so 
did the German’s and the doctor’s, and 
many others. There they were in that 
old deserted cemetery, a company of 
strangers, not one of whom had ever seen 
the other’s face before, exchanging their 
confidences and mingling their tears. 

All day long the fugitives poured into 
this strange encampment, and by night 
they numbered thirty thousand. There 
was shouting, swearing, laughing, weep- 
ing, waiting. There was pallid stupe- 
faction, sullen silence, faces of black 
despair — every kind of face except the 
happy variety. The air was thick with 
frightful stories of arson ; of men hang- 
ed to lamp-posts ; of incendiaries hurled 
headlong into the fires they had kindled ; 
of riot, mobs and lawlessness. There was 
scarcely a suburb that was not reported 
to be burning up, and prairie-fires were 
said to be raging. The fate of Sodom 
was believed to have overtaken Chicago 
and her dependent suburbs. 

“There’s no safety here,” said Mrs. 
Lively nervously as the flames ap- 
proached the cemetery. “Do let’s get 
out of this horrid place. What in the 
world do you want to stay here for?” 

“My dear,” replied the doctor with a 
twinkle, “ I don’t want to stay here. We 
are not certainly safe, but I don’t know 
of any place where our chances would 
be better.” 

“ Let’s go down to the beach, get on a 
propeller and go out into the lake.” 


“But, my dear, ‘the Sands’ and the 
lake shore are already thronged. It is 
said that people were lying in the lake, 
and others standing up to their necks in 
water — women with children in their 
arms. The propellers have doubtless 
taken off fugitives to their entire ca- 
pacity.” 

In the mean time the fire came on. 
Everywhere over the dead leaves and 
dry grass and piles of household goods, 
and against the headboards and wooden 
crosses, the brands were falling ; and the 
people were running and dodging, and 
fighting the incipient fires. 

“Oh, we shall be burned to death 
here ; I knew all the time we should,” 
cried Mrs. Lively, dodging to the right 
to escape a torch, and then running 
backward over a grave, beyond the 
reach of a second. Dr. Lively stamped 
out the fires. “ What under the sun are 
we going to do ?” persisted the lady. 

“ Dodge the brands — that’s your work 
— and look out that Napoleon doesn’t 
get on fire in one of his dreams.” 

“ Look there !” said Napoleon. 

“Look where?” cried Mrs. Lively, 
whirling around. 

“There.” 

“ Where is there .?” 

“ Dead-house.” 

“ The dead-house ! Good Heavens ! 
it’s afire !” 

“This fire-demon,” said the doctor, 
“isn’t going to let any of us off. It 
strikes at the living through their dead.” 

The dead-house, fortunately empty, 
was consumed, the headboards and 
crosses were burned, the trees were 
scorched and blackened, the graves were 
seared : all the life which the years had 
drawn from the entombed ashes was laid 
again in ashes. 

After a horrible suspense these grave- 
yard campers saw the fiery tide recede 
from their quarters and sweep on to the 
north. Then came on the weird, elfinish 
night, that mockery of day, when, except 
in the direction of the lake, great moun- 
tains of fire loomed up on every side 
against the horizon, so that one felt en- 
vironed, besieged, engirdled by horrors. 

“Try to get some sleep,” said Dr. 


THE LIVELIES. 


Lively to his wife when the torrent had 
swept by to the north. 

“Sleep!” said Mrs. Lively. “How 
can anybody sleep with these terrible 
fires all around ? It seems to me as if I 
were in some part of the infernal regions. 
I shall always know after this how hell 
looks.” 

“ I don’t think the fire will trouble us 
any more to-night, but I’ll watch : there 
will be plenty of watchers, indeed, to 
give the alarm. Lie down and try to 
get some rest.” 

“Where in the world is anybody to 
lie ? On a grave ? ' What in the world 
are you eating ?” continued Mrs. Lively, 
turning on Napoleon. 

Shoemake” answered the boy. 
“Want some ?” 

Mrs. Lively took some of the crimson, 
acrid berries and put them in her mouth. 

“You’re hungry,” said the father com- 
passionately. 

“ Awful,” answered the lad. 

“Where are you going?” asked the 
mother as he started off. 

“To bed,” he replied, and he stretch- 
ed himself out on a piece of carpet 
where half a dozen children were sleep- 
ing. 

“ Now do, Priscilla, lie down and try 
to sleep,” the husband insisted. 

“ How under the stars do you suppose 
I could sleep with hunger and thirst 
gnawing at the pit of my stomach ? Do 
let me alone : I want to try to think out 
something — to plan for the future. What 
under the sun is to become of us?” 

“My dear,” said the doctor, “don’t 
worry about the future. I’ll take care 
of it some way, if the fire will ever let 
us out of our present prison. We have 
our lives, our hands and our heads, and 
we must thank God.” 

“ Heads ! I feel as if I’d lost mine. I 
think sometimes that I’m insane.” 

“ Oh no : you ain’t of the kind that go 
insane.” 

“ I suppose you mean by that I’ve got 
no feelings, no sensibility.” 

“No, I don’t mean that;” and Dr. 
Lively became silent, as though it was 
useless to prolong the conversation. 

They were sitting together on the 


13 

ground, she leaning against a head- 
stone. 

“ Let me sit there against that stone, 
and you put your head on my lap,” the 
doctor proposed. 

“What in the world is the use of it ?” 
she said. “Do you think I’m deaf that 
I could -sleep with all this moaning 
around me ? Just hear it I One would 
think all these graves had just been 
made, and that all these people were 
chief mourners for the dead.” 

“ The strangest bivouac ever seen un- 
der heaven !” said the doctor, looking 
around. “ In a life liable to such vicissi- 
tudes,” he continued softly, “it is im- 
portant that we possess our spirits.” 

“Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t preach! 
What’s the use ?” said the wife. 

“What’s the use, indeed?” said the 
husband in a saddened tone. “If one 
heed not the voice of the past twenty- 
four hours — ” He left the sentence un- 
finished. 

“ Oh, I know. Everybody, the world 
over, will be preaching about Chicago. 
She was so wicked. Sodom and Go- 
morrah and Babylon ! That’ll be the 
talk. I suppose we shall be told ten 
thousand times that riches have wings — 
just as though we hadn’t seen the wings 
and couldn’t swear to the color of them. 
But, dear me ! I’ve been thinking that 
your story of losses by the fire is not 
worth telling. I wish to goodness we’d 
bought the house. If you hadn’t lost the 
money, we might have now a respectable- 
sized story to tell of our losses. I shall 
be ashamed to tell that we lost just some 
clothes and household traps, when some 
people have lost millions. How much 
better it would sound to say that our 
house and everything in it was burned ! 
People wouldn’t know but it was a fifty- 
thousand-dollar house. But a few chairs 
and bedquilts ! — it’s too small to talk 
about.” 

“We’ve lost enough to satisfy me,” 
said the doctor. “ All my practice that 
I’ve been ten years in building up ! I’m 
exactly where I was when I began in 
Chicago. We own but five dollars in 
the world — haven’t even a change of 
clothes.” 


14 


THE LIVELIES. 


“ I’ve a mind to say that we had just 
bought the house, and it was burned,” 
said Mrs. Lively. “I’m sure it was just 
the same. But then you never would 
stand by me in the story : you’d be sure 
to let the cat out.” 

“ But what good would come of such 
a story ?” asked the doctor. • 

“ Why, people would be so much sor- 
rier for us. Nobody could feel sorry for 
that old pop-corn woman you were talk- 
ing to, even if she did lose all she had ; 
and just so it will be with us. It’s just 
like you to be always missing a good 
thing. If you’d only bought the house 
before you lost the money !” 

"You’re determined to saddle the loss 
of that money on me,” the doctor said 
smiling. 

“Well, who lost it if you didn’t ?” 

“ I’m sure I can’t say.” 

“ Of course you can’t. You might as 
well say that black isn’t black as that 
you didn’t lose that money.” 

“ I’ll acknowledge, once for all, that I 
lost the money if you’ll let the subject 
drop,” said he wearily. “ It’s wasting 
time and breath to talk about it. There,” 
he continued soothingly, “ try to forget, 
and go to sleep.” 

“ It’s wasting time and breath telling 
me to go to sleep,” replied the wife. 

“Hurrah! here’s a cigar!” said the 
doctor, producing one from his pocket. 
“ Now, if I only had a match to light it !” 

“For patience’ sake, you needn’t be 
at a loss for a light for a cigar when all 
this universe is afire. Go and light it 
at that headboard over there, and then 
sit down and take your comfort while 
I’m starving. Why in the world doesn’t 
it rain ? I don’t see why the Lord should 
have such a spite against Chicago : we 
ain’t any worse than other people.” 

And thus the woman continued to run 
on all night. Up to two o’clock she 
complained because it didn’t rain, and 
after that she shivered and moaned be- 
cause it did. 

With the morning, water-carts and 
bakers’ wagons began to arrive on the 
ground. These were quickly emptied 
among the hungry, thirsty people. Dr. 
Lively spent his five dollars to within 


fifty cents for the relief of the sufferers 
about him. Mrs. Lively obstinately re- 
fused to take anything. 

“ I won’t eat bread at twenty-five cents 
a loaf, and I won’t drink water at ten cents 
a quart. I’ll die first !” she declared. 

“ I want you to take me to the West 
Division,” Dr. Lively said to one of the 
bakers. He had already tried a dozen 
times to make terms with teamsters to 
this end. “ I have a wife and child.” 

“ I’ll do it for five dollars apiece,” re- 
plied the man. 

“ I haven’t any money. Will you take 
a set of silver forks in pawn ?” 

“ He sha’n’t have my forks,” said Mrs. 
Lively violently. — “ How dare you specu- 
late on our calamities?” she demanded 
of the baker. “You sha’n’t have my 
forks : I’ll stay here and starve first. I 
mean to stand this siege of extortion to 
the last gasp.” 

“But, my dear,” remonstrated the 
doctor, “there are people here who are 
already near their last gasp. There are 
the sick and infirm and little children. 
There are women now on this desolate 
ground in the pangs of childbirth, and 
infants not an hour old. These must 
have help. I must get over to the West 
Division. There are some hearts over 
there, I am sure.” 

“I’ll take you, sir,” said the baker, 
“and I don’t want none of your silver. 
I’m beat, sir : I never thought of women 
hit that way. I can’t fight with sich, and 
with babies born in a graveyard. I’m 
whipped, sir. I ain’t never had much 
of a chance to make a extry dollar : I 
thought this fire had give me a chance. 
My shop was left, full of flour. I was 
bakin’ all night ; but darn me if I kin 
put the screw onto babies, and women 
in childbed. You shall have my horse 
and cart and all my bakery for ’em. 
Come, load up.”* 

On their way through the burnt dis- 
trict, on the ill-fated Chicago Avenue, 
they passed a ruined wall where people 
were preparing to dig out two men. One 
was crying piteously in mixed German 

*It need scarcely be said that the incidents here 
related are literal facts, which came under the writer’s 
observation in the midst of the scenes described. 


THE LIVELIES. 


and English for help. The other, ex- 
cept his head and shoulders, was com- 
pletely buried beneath the ruins. As 
the people began to remove the rubbish 
he said in a tone expressive at once of 
pluck and agony, “Leave me, and go 
and get out that bawling Dutchman : he 
ain’t dead, and I am.” 

As it proved, he was broken all to 
pieces, both legs and both arms being 
fractured, one of the arms in two places. 

Of course Dr. Lively found the hearts 
he went to seek, not only among the 
favored few whom God had spared the 
bitter cup, but all over the world. We 
all know the beautiful story — how all the 
cities and villages and hamlets of the 
land were on the housetops, watching 
the burning of Chicago, marking her 
needs, and speeding the relief as fast as 
steam and lightning could bring it. We 
know of that message of love, the sweet- 
est, the most wonderful the world ever 
heard since Christ died for us. Through 
the pallid stupefaction, the sullen silence, 
the awful gloom, the black despair that 


IS 

were settling over Chicago’s heart, it 
pierced, and from all the world it came : 
“ We have heard thy cry, O our sister ! 
Our hearts are aching for thee ; our 
tears are flowing for thee ; our hands are 
working for thee.” Oh, how it electrified 
us in Chicago ! If any refused, if any 
gave grudgingly, we saw it not, we knew 
it not. We saw only the eager out- 
stretched hand of love. 

And we know now the sequel of the 
wonderful story — how Chicago has 
proved herself worthy of the great love 
wherewith the world hath loved her, and 
of the great faith wherewith the world 
hath believed in her. She has come up 
out of her bereavement strong through 
suffering, wearing yet her badge of 
mourning, her face subdued, but uplift- 
ed, wise and strong of purpose ; her eye 
sad, but earnest and true; her figure 
less imperious, but majestic and regal ; 
her spirit less arrogant, but just as brave, 
just as heroic, and more human. 

(end op part 1.) 



i6 


THE LIVELIES, 


THE LIVELIES. 

IN TWO PARTS.— II. 


W HEN Dr. Lively had accomplish- 
ed his part toward relieving im- 
mediate suffering, when he saw system 
growing gradually out of the chaos; when 
he saw that he could be spared from the 
work, he began to consider his personal 
affairs. 

“I can’t start again here,” he said to 
Mrs. Lively. “Office and living rooms 
that would answer at all cannot be had 
for less than one hundred and fifty dol- 
lars a month, and that paid in advance, 
and I haven’t a cent.” 

“ What in the world are we going to 
do ?” 

“I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking 
about : I met in the relief-rooms yester- 
day an old college acquaintance — Ed- 
ward Harrison. He lives in Keokuk, 
Iowa, now — came on here with some 
money and provisions for the sufferers. 
He would insist on lending me a few 
dollars. He’s a good fellow : I used to 
like him at college. Well, he told me 
of a place near Keokuk where a good 
physician and surgeon is needed — none 
there except a raw young man. It has 
no railroad, but it’s all the better for a 
doctor on that account.” 

“No railroad! How in the world do 
the folks get anywhere ?” 

“It’s on the Mississippi River, and 
boats are passing the town every few 
hours.” 

“The idea of going from Chicago to 
where there isn’t even a railroad I What 
place is it ?” 

“Nauvoo.” 

“Nauvoo! That miserable Mormon 
place ?” 

“Harrison says there is only an oc- 
casional Mormon there now — that it’s 
largely settled by Germans engaged in 
wine-making.” 

“Grapes?” asked Napoleon. 

“That boy never comes out of his 
dreaming except for something to eat. 
Dear me ! the idea of living among a 


lot of Germans I” said Mrs. Lively, re- 
turning to the subject. 

“There’s a French element there, the 
remnants of the Icarians — a colony of 
Communists under Cabet,” the doctor 
explained. 

“ What ! those horrid Communists that 
turned Paris upside down ?” Mrs. Lively 
exclaimed. 

“Oh no,” said the doctor. “They 
settled in Nauvoo some twenty years 
ago, I believe.” 

“Dear! dear! dear! it’s very hard,” 
said the lady. 

“ My dear, I think we are very fortu- 
nate. Harrison says there’s plenty of 
work there, though it’s hard work — rid- 
ing over bad roads. He promises me 
letters of introduction to merchants there, 
so that I can get credit for the house- 
hold goods we shall need to begin with 
and for our pressing necessities. He 
has already written to a man there to 
rent us a house, and put up a kitchen 
stove and a couple of plain beds, and to 
have a few provisions on hand when 
we arrive. I purpose leaving here to- 
morrow, or the day after at farthest.” 

“But how are we ever to get there 
without money ?” 

“We can get passes out of the city. 
So, my dear, please try to feel grateful. 
Think of the thousands here who can’t 
turn round, who are utterly helpless.” 

“Well, it never did help me to feel 
better to know that somebody was worse 
off than I. It doesn’t cure my headache 
to be told that somebody else has a 
raging toothache. Grateful ! when I 
haven’t even a change of clothes!” 

“Go to the relief-rooms and get a 
change of under-garments,” Dr. Lively 
advised. 

“ I won’t go there and wait round like 
a beggar, and have them ask me a mil- 
lion of prying questions, and all for 
somebody’s old clothes,” Mrs. Lively 
declared. 


THE LIVELIES. 


17 


“ Now, my dear,” her husband remon- 
strated, ‘‘I have been a great deal in 
the relief-rooms, and I believe there are 
no unnecessary questions asked — only 
such as are imperative to prevent im- 
position.” 

"The things don’t belong to them any 
more than they do to me.” 

"Perhaps not as much. They were 
sent to the destitute, such as you, so you 
shouldn’t mind asking for your own,” 
the doctor argued. 

"Think what a mean little story I 
should have to tell ! I do wish you’d 
bought that house. If we’d lost fifty 
thousand ! — but a few bed-quilts and 
those old frogs and bugs and dried 
leaves of yours ! The most miserable 
Irish woman on DeKoven street can tell 
as big a story of losses as we can.” 

"I’ll go to the relief- rooms and get 
some clothes for you,” said the doctor 
decidedly : " I’m not ashamed.” 

" I won’t wear any of the things if you 
bring them,” said Mrs. Lively. 

"Oh, wife,” said the doctor, his face 
pallid and grieved, " you are wrong, you 
are wrong. Are you to get no kind of 
good out of this calamity ? Is the chas- 
tisement to exasperate only ? to make 
you more perverse, more bitter?” 

"You are very complimentary,” was 
the wife’s reply. 

The doctor was silent for a moment : 
then he took up his hat. " I’m going to 
try to get passes out of the city,” he said. 

He had a long walk by Twelfth street 
to the rooms of the committee on trans- 
portation. Arrived at the hall, he found 
two long lines of waiting humanity reach- 
ing out like great wings from the door, 
the men on one side, the women on the 
other. He fell into line at the very foot, 
and there he waited hour after hour. 
For once, the women held the vantage- 
ground. They passed up in advance 
of the men to the audience-room, being 
admitted one by one. The audience 
consumed, on the average, five minutes 
to a person. At length all the women 
had had their turn ; then, one by one, 
the men were admitted. Slowly Dr. 
Lively moved forward. He had attain- 
ed the steps and was feeling hopeful of 
2 


a speedy admission, when the business- 
session was pronounced ended for the 
day, and the doors were closed. He 
went back drooping, and related his ex- 
perience to his wife. 

"You don’t mean to say you’ve been 
gone all this afternoon and come back 
without the passes ?” she exclaimed. 

"That’s just how it is,” answered the 
doctor. 

"Well, I’ll warrant I would have got 
in if I’d been there,” she said. 

" Yes, you’d have got an audience, for, 
as I have said, the women were admit- 
ted before the men. My next neighbor 
in the line said he had been there three 
days in succession without getting into 
the hall.” 

"Well, I’ll go in the morning, and I’ll 
come home with a pass in an hour, I 
promise you.” 

The next morning Mrs. Lively started 
for the hall at eight o’clock, determined 
to procure a place at the head of the 
line. But, early as was the hour, she 
found the doors already besieged. There 
were at least three dozen women ahead 
of her. She took her place very un- 
graciously at the foot of the line. At 
nine the doors were opened, and the first 
comers admitted. Ten o’clock came, 
and Mrs. Lively was still in the street — 
had not even reached the stairs. Eleven 
o’clock came — she stood on the second 
step. At length she had reached the 
top step but one, and it was not yet 
twelve. 

" It doesn’t seem fair,” she said to the 
doorkeeper, " that the men should have 
to wait, day after day, till all the women 
in the city are served.” 

"No,” assented the keeper, "it is not 
fair. Now, there are men in that line 
who have been here for four days. 
They’d have done better and saved time 
if they’d gone to work in the burnt dis- 
trict moving rubbish, and earned their 
railroad passage.” 

Mrs. Lively’s suggestion of unfairness 
proved an unfortunate one for her, for 
the keeper conceived the idea of acting 
on it. 

"It isn’t fair,” he repeated, “and I 
mean to let some of those fellows in,” 


i8 


THE LIVELIES. 


'’Oh, do let me in first,” she cried, 
but the keeper had already beckoned to 
the head of the other line, and was now 
marching him into the hall. 

“No use for you to try for a pass,” 
said the inner doorkeeper after a few 
words with the petitioner. “You must 
have a certificate from some well-known, 
responsible person that your means were 
all lost by the fire, or you cannot get an 
audience. Must have your certificate, 
sir, before I can pass you to the com- 
mittee.” 

The man thus turned back went sor- 
rowfully down the steps into the street, 
and the next man passed in-doors. 

“You want a pass for yourself,” said 
the inner keeper. “The committee re- 
fuse in any circumstances to issue passes 
to able-bodied men. If you are able to 
work, you can earn your fare : plenty 
of work for willing hands. No use in 
arguing the matter, sir,” he continued 
resolutely : “you can’t get a pass.” 

“ But I haven’t a dollar in the world,” 
persisted the man. 

“ Plenty of work at big prices, sir. 
Women and children and the sick and 
helpless we’ll pass out of the city, but 
we need men, and we won’t pass them 
out.” 

He turned away from the petitioner 
and beckoned the head woman to enter. 
This one had her audience, and came 
back crying. Mrs. Lively was now at 
the head of the line. Her turn had at 
last come. 

“ Session’s over,” announced the keep- 
er, and closed the doors. 

Some scores of disconsolate people 
dispersed in this direction and that. 
Mrs. Lively and a few others sat down 
on the steps, determined to wait for the 
reopening of the doors. After a weary 
waiting in the noon sun, which was not, 
however, very oppressive, the doors were 
again opened, and Mrs. Lively was ad- 
mitted to the audience-room. At the 
head of one of the long tables sat George 
M. Pullman, to whom Mrs. Lively told 
her small story. Then she asked for 
passes to Nauvoo for herself, husband 
and son. She was kindly but closely 
questioned. Didn’t she save some sil- 


ver and jewelry? didn’t her husband 
save his watch ? etc. etc. 

Mrs. Lively acknowledged it. “But,” 
she added, “we haven’t' a change of 
clothes — we haven’t money enough to 
keep us in drinking-water.” 

“Buy water!” said Mr. Pullman with 
a decided accent of impatience. “ Don’t 
talk about buying water with that great 
lake over there. Wait till Michigan 
goes dry. I’ve brought water with my 
own hands from Lake Michigan. Money 
for water, indeed !” 

“So has my husband brought water 
from the lake,” replied the lady with 
spirit: “he brought two pails yesterday 
morning, and it took him three hours 
and a half to accomplish it. I presume 
your quarters are nearer the lake than 
ours.” 

“Well, well, I can’t give your husband 
a pass. He can raise money on his 
watch, can get a half-fare ticket, or he 
can work his way out. We don’t like 
to see our men turning their backs on 
Chicago now : some have to, I suppose. 
I ought hardly to give you a pass, but 
I’ll give you one, and your child;” and 
he gave the order to the clerk. 

In another moment she was on her 
way to the Chicago, Burlington and 
Quincy ticket-office to get the pass coun- 
tersigned. At three o’clock she reached 
her quarters with the paper, having been 
absent seven hours. 

As the pass was good for three days 
only, despatch was necessary in getting 
matters into shape and in leaving the 
city. Dr. Lively pawned his watch — a 
fine gold repeater — for twenty dollars, 
and the next day, with an aching heart 
but smiling face, turned his back on the 
city whose bold challenges, splendid 
successes and dramatic career made it 
to him the most fascinating spot, the 
most dearly loved, this side of heaven. 

In due time these Chicago sufferers 
were landed at Montrose, a miserable 
little village in Iowa, at the head of the 
Keokuk Rapids. Just across the won- 
derful river lay the historical Nauvoo, 
fair and beautiful as a poet’s dream, 
though the wooded slopes retained but 
shreds of their autumn-dyed raiment. 


THE LIVELIES. 


19 


Mrs. Lively was pleased, the doctor was 
enthusiastic. They forgot that “over 
the river” is always beautiful. They 
crossed in a skiff at a rapturous rate, 
but when they had made the landing 
the disenchantment began. A two-horse 
wagon was waiting for passengers, and 
in this our friends embarked. The 
driver had heard they were coming, and 
knew the house that had been engaged 
for them — the Woodruff house, built by 
one of the old Mormon elders. The 
streets through which they drove were 
silent, with scarcely a sound or sight of 
human life. It all looked strange and 
queer, unlike anything they had ever 
seen. It was neither city nor village. 
The houses, city-like, all opened on the 
street, or had little front yards of city 
proportions, and to almost every one 
was attached the inevitable vineyard. 
It was indeed a city, with nineteen out 
of every twenty houses lifted out of it, 
and vineyards established in their places ; 
and all the houses had an old-fashioned 
look, for almost without exception they 
antedated the Mormon exodus. 

The Livelies were set down in a street 
where the sand was over the instep, be- 
fore a stiff, graceless brick building, 
standing close up in one corner of an 
acre lot. On one side, in view from 
the front gate, was a dilapidated hen- 
house — on the other, a more unsightly 
stable with a pig-sty attached. All the 
space between the house and vineyard, 
in every direction, was strewn with corn- 
cobs and remnants of haystacks, while 
straw and manure were banked against 
the house to keep the cellar warm. In 
front was a walled sewer, through which 
the town on the hill was drained, for thew 
Livelies’ new home was on “the Flat,” 
as the lower town is called. The view 
from the front took in only a dreary 
hillside covered with decaying corn- 
stalks. 

The doctor moved a barrel-hoop which 
fastened the gate, and it tottered over, 
and clung by one hinge to the worm- 
eaten post, from which the decaying 
fence had fallen away. A hall ran 
through the house, and on either side 
were two rooms. The second floor was 


a duplicate of the first, so that the house 
contained eight small rooms, nine by 
eleven feet, exactly alike, each with a 
huge fireplace. There was not a pantry, 
a closet, a clothes-press, a shelf in the 
house. Not a room was papered : all 
were covered with* a coarse whitewash, 
smoked, fly-specked and momently fall- 
ing in great scales. The floors were 
rough, knotty and warped ; the wash- 
boards were rat-gnawed in every direc- 
tion ; all the woodwork was unpainted 
and gray with age. 

Two beds and a kitchen stove had 
been set up on the bare floors. On a 
pine table in the cramped kitchen were 
a few dishes, tins and pails, a loaf of 
bread, a ham, some coffee and sugar. 
Mrs. Lively sat down in the kitchen on 
a wooden chair with a feeling of utter 
desolation in her heart. Napoleon look- 
ed longingly at the loaf of bread. The 
doctor flew round in a way that would 
have cheered anybody not foregone to 
despondency. He brought in some cobs 
from the yard and kindled a fire in the 
stove, filled the tea-kettle, and put some 
slices of ham to fry and some coffee to 
boil. 

“Go up stairs, dear,” he said to Mrs. 
Lively, “ and lie down while I get supper 
ready. You are tired: I feel as smart 
as a new whip. I haven’t been a soldier 
for nothing : I’ll give you some of the 
best coffee you ever drank. Nappy, 
run across the street and see if you can’t 
get a cup of milk : I see the people have 
a cow. Won’t you lie down ?” he con- 
tinued to his wife. She looked so in- 
effably wretched that his heart ached for 
her. 

“ I think I shall feel better if I do 
something,” she said drearily; “but,” 
she continued, firing with something of 
her old spirit, “how in the world is any- 
body to do anything here ? Not even a 
dishcloth !” 

“ Oh, never mind,” laughed the doctor, 
piling the dusty dishes in a pan for wash- 
ing, “ we’ll just set the crockery up in this 
cullender to drain dry.” 

“We’d better turn hermits, go and 
winter in a cave, and be done with it. 
How are we ever to live ?” 


20 


THE LIVELIES. 


“ Why, my dear, I never felt so plucky 
in my life. We mustn’t show the white 
feather : we must prove ourselves worthy 
of Chicago. Come, now, we’ll work to 
get back to Chicago. We can live eco- 
nomically here, and when we get a little 
ahead we can start. again in Chicago. 
Only think of these eight rooms and an 
acre of ground, three-fourths in grapes, 
for six dollars a month ! Ain’t it in- 
spiriting ? I’ve seen you at picnics eat- 
ing with your fingers, drinking from a 
leaf-cup, making all kinds of shifts and 
enjoying all the straits. Now we can 
play picnicking here — play that we are 
camping out, and that one of these days, 
when we’ve bagged our game, we’re 
going home to Chicago. Now, we’ll set 
the table and he began moving the 
dishes, pans and bundles off the pine 
table on to chairs and the floor. 

"Isn’t this sweet,’’ said Mrs. Lively, 
"eating in the kitchen and without a 
tablecloth ?’’ 

" We’ll have a dining-room to-morrow, 
and a tablecloth,’’ said the doctor cheer- 
fully. 

Thanks to his friend Harrison’s letters. 
Dr. Lively readily obtained credit for 
imperative family necessities. If ever 
anybody merited success as a cheerful 
worker, it was our doctor. He did the 
work of ever-so-many men, and almost 
of one woman. Pray don’t despise him 
when I tell you that he kneaded the 
bread, to save Mrs. Lively’s back ; that 
he did most of the family washing — that 
is, he did the rubbing, the wringing, the 
lifting, the hanging out — and once a 
week he scrubbed. When he wasn’t 
"doing housework ’’ he was in his office, 
busy, not with patients, but in writing 
articles for magazines and papers. Then 
he set to work upon a book, at which he 
toiled hopefully during the dreary winter, 
for he was almost ignored as a physician, 
although there seemed to be considerable 
sickness. He heard of the other doctor 
riding all night. Indeed, if one could 
believe all that was said, this physician 
never slept. True, this man was not a 
graduate of medicine. He had been a 
barber, and had gone directly from the 
razor to the scalpel ; but that did not 


matter: he had more calls in a week 
than Dr. Lively had during the winter. 

"The idea of being beaten by a bar- 
ber!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Lively. "Why 
don’t you advertise yourself?’’ 

"There’s no paper here to advertise 
in.” 

"Then you ought to have a sign to 
tell people what you are — that you were 
surgeon of volunteers in the army ; that 
you had a good practice in Chicago; 
that you’re a graduate of two medical 
schools ; that you write for the medical 
journals and for the magazines. Why 
don’t you have these things put on a big 
sign ?” 

"It would be unprofessional.” 

"To be professional you must sit in 
that miserable office and let your family 
starve. Why don’t you denounce this 
upstart barber ? — tell people that he 
hasn’t a diploma — that he doesn’t know 
anything — that he couldn’t reduce that 
hernia and had to call on you ?” 

" That’s opposed to all medical ethics.” 

" Medical fiddlesticks ! You’ve got to 
sit here like a maiden, to be wooed and 
won, and can’t lift a finger or speak a 
word for yourself. Then there’s that wo- 
man with the broken arm — Joe Smith’s 
wife. Why shouldn’t you tell that the 
barber didn’t set it right, and that you 
had to reset it ? I saw some of Joseph 
Smith’s grandchildren the other day,” 
she continued, suddenly changing the 
subject, "and I must say they don’t look 
like the descendants of a prophet.” 

For a brief period in the unfolding 
spring Mrs. Lively experienced a little 
lifting of her spirits. The season was 
marvelously beautiful in Nauvoo : one 
serious expense, that for fuel, was stay- 
ed, and there was the promise of in- 
creased sickness, and thus increased 
work for the doctor. But this gleam 
was followed almost immediately by a 
shadow : a scientific paper which he had 
despatched to a leading magazine came 
back to him with the line, " Well written, 
but too heavy for our purposes.”* 

"I knew it was,” said Mrs. Lively. 

* [While desirous of affording full scope to a talent 
for realistic description, we must protest against al- 
lusions bordering on personality.— Ed.] 


THE LIVELIES, 


21 


“You write the driest, long-windedest 
things that ever I read.” 

Dr. Lively sighed, took his hat and 
went out, while Mrs. Lively, after some 
moments of irresolution, set about get- 
ting dinner. 

“Now, where’s your father?’’ she im- 
patiently demanded when the dinner 
had been set on the table. 

“ Dunno,’’ answered Master Napoleon 
through the potato by which his mouth 
was already possessed. 

The Little Corporal, as he was some- 
times called by virtue of his illustrious 
name, was a lean-faced lad with no 
friendly rolls of adipose to conceal the 
fact that he was cramming with all his 
energies. 

“ Why in the name of sense can’t he 
come to his dinner ?’’ 

Napoleon gave a gulping swallow to 
clear his tongue. “ Dunno,’’ he man- 
aged to articulate, and then went off 
into a violent paroxysm of choking and 
coughing. 

“Why don’t you turn your head?’’ 
cried the mother, seizing the said mem- 
ber between her two hands and giving 
it an energetic twist that dislocated a 
bone or snapped a tendon, one might 
have surmised from the sharp crick- 
crack which accompanied the move- 
ment. “What in the name of decency 
makes you pack your mouth in that 
manner? Are you famished ?’’ 

VA’most,’’ answered the recovered 
Napoleon, resettling himself, face to the 
table, and resuming the shoveling of 
mashed potato into his mouth. 

“That’s a pretty story, after all the 
breakfast you ate, and the lunch you had 
not two hours ago! Where under the 
sun, moon and stars do you put it all ?’’ 

“Mouth,’’ responded Napoleon, de- 
scribing with his strong teeth a semicircle 
in his slice of brown bread. 

“Tell me what can be keeping your 
father,’’ said Mrs. Lively, returning to 
her subject. 

“ Can’t.’’ 

“ He’ll come poking along in the 
course of time, I suppose, when all the 
hot things are cold, and all the cold 
things are hot. Just like him. And I 


worked myself into a fever to get them 
on the table piping hot and ice-cold. 
From stove to cellar, from cellar to well, 

I rushed, but if I’d worked myself to 
death’s door, he’d stay his stay out, all 
the same.’’ 

“ Reason for stayin’, I s’pose,’’ sug- 
gested Napoleon. 

“Yes, of course you’ll take his part — 
you always do. For pity’s sake, what 
has your mother ever done that you 
should side against her ?’’ 

“Dunno.’’ 

“Dunno! Of course you don’t. I’ll 
tell you : She tended you through all your 
helpless infancy : she nursed you through 
teething, and whooping-cough; and mea- 
sles, and scarlet fever, and chicken-pox, 
and mercy knows what else. Many’s the 
time she watched with you the livelong 
night, when your father was snoring and 
dreaming in the farthest corner of the 
house, so he mightn’t hear your wailing 
and moaning. She’s toiled and slaved 
for you like a plantation negro, while 
he — ’’ 

“ He’s cornin’,’’ interrupted Napoleon, 
without for a moment intermitting his 
potato-shoveling. “Walkin’ fast,’’ con- 
tinued the sententious lad, swallowing 
immediately half a cup of milk. 

Dr. Lively came hurrying into the 
dining-room. 

“For pity’s sake, I think it’s about 
time,’’ the wife began pettishly. 

“ Have you seen my purse anywhere 
about here ?’’ the gentleman asked with 
an anxious cadence in his voice. 

“Your purse!’’ shrieked Mrs. Lively, 
turning short upon her husband and 
glaring in wild alarm. 

“Lost it?’’ asked Napoleon, digging 
his fork into a huge potato and trans- 
ferring it to his plate. 

“Go, look in the bed-room. Nappy : I 
think I must have dropped it there,’’ 
said the father. 

Napoleon rose from his chair, but stop- ^ 
ped halfway between sitting and stand- 
ing for a farewell bite at his bread and 
butter. 

“For mercy’s sake, why don’t you 
go along?’’ Mrs. Lively snapped out. 
“What do you keep sitting there for ?’’ 


22 


THE LIVELIES. 


“Ain’t a-settin’,’’ responded Nappy, 
laying hold of his cup for a last swallow. 

“Standing there, then ?’’ 

“Ain’t a-standin’.’’ 

“ If you don't go along — ’’ and Mrs. 
Lively started for her son and heir with 
a threat in every inch of her. 

“Am a-goin’,’’ returned the son and 
heir; and, sure enough, he went. 

During this passage between mother 
and child Dr. Lively had been keeping 
up an unflagging by-play, searching per- 
sistently every part of the dining-room 
— the mantelpiece, the clock, the cup- 
board, the shelves. 

“ In the name of common sense,’’ ex- 
claimed the wife, after watching him a 
moment, “what’s the use of looking in 
that knife-basket? Shouldn’t I have 
seen it when I set the table if it had been 
there ? Do you think I’m blind ? Where 
did you lose your purse ?’’ 

“ If I knew where I lost it I’d go and 
get it.’’ 

“Well, where did you have it when 
you missed it ?’’ 

“As well as I can remember I didn’t 
have it when I missed it.’’ 

“Well, where did you have it before 
you missed it ?’’ 

“ In my pocket.’’ 

“ Oh yes,, this is a pretty time to joke, 
when my heart is breaking ! I shouldn’t 
be surprised to hear of your laughing at 
my grave. Very well, if you won’t tell 
me where you’ve been with your purse, 
I can’t help you look for it ; and what’s 
more, I won’t, and you’ll never find it 
unless I do, Dr. Lively : I can tell you 
that. You never were known to find 
anything.” 

' “ Not there,” said Napoleon re-enter- 
ing the room and reseating himself at 
the table. “ Milk, please,” he continued, 
extending his cup toward his mother. 

"You ain’t going to eating again?” 
cried the lady. 

“Am.” 

“Where do you put it all? I believe 
in my soul — Are your legs hollow ?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Do, my dear,” remonstrated Dr. 
Lively, “let the child eat all he wants. 
You keep up an everlasting nagging, as 


though you begrudged him every mouth- 
ful he swallows.” 

“Oh, it’s fine of you to talk, when you 
lose all the money that comes into the 
family — five thousand dollars in Chica- 
go, and sixty dollars now, for I’ll warrant 
you hadn’t paid out a cent of it ; and 
all those accounts against us ! Had you 
paid any bills ? had you ? You won’t 
answer, but you needn’t think to escape 
and deceive me by such a shallow trick. 
If you’d paid a bill you’d been keen 
enough to tell it : you’d have shouted it 
out long ago. Pretty management ! Just 
like you, shiftless ! Why in the name 
of the five senses didn’t you pay out the 
money before you lost the purse ? You 
might have known you were going to 
lose it : you always lose everything.” 

“Bread, please,” called Napoleon, 
who had taken advantage of the con- 
fusion to sweep the bread-plate clean. 

“In the name of wonder!” exclaimed 
the mother, snatching a half loaf from the 
pantry. “ There I take it and eat it, and 
burst. — Do,” she continued, turning to 
Dr. Lively, “ stop your tramp, tramping 
round this room, and come and eat your 
dinner. There’s not an atom of reason 
in spending your time looking for that 
purse. You’ll never see it again. Like 
enough you dropped it down the well : 
it would be just like you. I just know 
that purse is down that well. Careless- 
ness ! the idea of dropping your purse 
down the well !” 

Without heeding the rattle, Napoleon 
went on eating and Dr. Lively went on 
searching — now in the dining-room, now 
in the kitchen, now in the hall. 

Mrs. Lively soon returned to her life- 
work : “What’s the sense in poking, and 
poking, and poking around, and around, 
and around ? Mortal eyes will never see 
that purse again. I’ve no question but 
you put it in the stove for a chip this 
morning when you made the fire. Who 
ever heard of another man kindling a 
fire with a purse ? Will you eat your 
dinner. Dr. Lively, or shall I clear away 
the table ? I can’t have the work stand- 
ing round all day.” 

Notwithstanding his worry, the doctor 
was hungry, so he replied by seating 


THE LIVELIES. 


23 


himself at the table. “ There’s nothing 
here to eat,” he said, glancing at the 
empty dishes and plates. 

“ If that boy hasn’t cleared off every 
dish!” cried the housekeeper. “Why 
didn’t you lick the platters clean, and 
be done with it?” and she seized an 
empty dish in either hand and disap- 
peared to replenish it. 

While her husband took his dinner 
she went up stairs and ransacked the 
bed-room for the missing purse. ” What 
are you sitting there for ?” she exclaim- 
ed, suddenly re-entering the dining-room, 
where Dr. Lively was sitting with his 
arms on the table. “ Why don’t you get 
up and look for that purse you lost 

“No use, you said,” Napoleon put in 
by way of reminder. 

“For pity’s sake, arn’t you done eat- 
ing yet ?” 

' “Just am,” answered the corporal, 
rising from his seat, yet chewing indus- 
triously. 

Mrs. Lively began to gather the dirty 
dishes into a pan. “ What are you going 
to do about it. Dr. Lively ?” she asked 
meanwhile. 

“ I don’t know what we can do about 
it, except to cut off corners — live more 
economically.” 

“As if we could!” cried Mrs. Lively, 
all ablaze. “Where are there any cor- 
ners to cut off? In the name of charity, 
tell me. I’ve cut and shaved until life 
is as round and as bare as this plate.” 
With a mighty rattle and clatter she 
threw the said plate into the dish-pan 
and jerked up a platter from the table. 
Holding it in her left hand, she proceed- 
ed : “Do you know. Dr. Lively, what 
your family lives on? Potatoes, Dr. 
Lively — potatoes ; that is, mostly. How 
much do I pay out a month for help ? A 
half cent ? Not a quarter of it. How 
much is wasted in my housekeeping? 
Not a single crumb. It would keep any 
common woman busy cooking for that 
boy. I tell you. Dr. Lively, I can’t 
economize any more than I do and have 
done. I might wring and twist and 
screw in every possible direction, and at 
the year’s end there wouldn’t be a nickel 
to show for all the wringing and twisting 


and screwing. There’s only one way in 
which the purse can be made up— there’s 
only one way in which economy is pos- 
sible. You can save that money. Dr. 
Lively : you’re the only member of the 
family who has a luxury.” 

"Hang me with a grapevine if I’ve 
got any luxury !” said the doctor with 
something of an amused expression on 
his face. 

“Tobacco,” suggested Napoleon. 

“Yes, it’s tobacco. You can give up 
the nasty weed, the filthy habit.” 

“ Do it ?” asked Napoleon. 

“ Don’t think I shall,” replied the doc- 
tor coolly. 

“Then I’ll save the money,” respond- 
ed Mrs. Lively with heroic voice and 
manner. “ I had forgotten : there is one 
other way. Dr. Lively, I’m housekeep- 
er, laundress, cook, everything to your 
family. And what do I get for it ? Less 
than any twelve-year-old girl who goes 
out to service. I have the blessed priv- 
ilege of lodging in this old Mormon rat- 
hole, and I have just enough of the very 
cheapest victuals to keep the breath in 
my body ; and one single, solitary thing 
that is not absolutely necessary to my 
existence — one thing that I could pos- 
sibly live without.” 

“ What ?” asked Napoleon, gaping and 
staring. 

“ It is sugar — sugar in my coffee. I’ll 
drink my coffee without sugar till that 
sixty dollars is made up. I’ll never 
touch sugar again till that money is 
made good — never !” and into the kitch- 
en sailed Mrs. Lively with her pan of 
dishes. 

“Sugar, please,” demanded Napoleon 
the next morning at the breakfast-table. 
Dr. Lively passed over the sugar-bowl. 

“How can you have the heart to take 
so much ?” said the mother, watching 
Napoleon as he emptied one heaping 
spoonful and then another into his cof- 
fee-cup. “But I might have known 
you’d leave your mother to bear the 
burden all alone. All the economizing, 
all the self-denial, must come on my 
shoulders. And just look at me ! — noth- 
ing but skin and bones. I’ve got to 
make up everybody’s losses, every- 


24 


THE LIVELIES. 


body’s wasting. It’s a rare thing if I 
get a warm meal with the rest of you : 
I’m all the while eating up the cold 
victuals and scraps and burnt things 
that nobody else will eat.” 

“I’d eat ’em,” said Napoleon. 

‘‘Of course you’d eat them. There’s 
nothing you wouldn’t eat, in the heav- 
ens above or the earth beneath. And 
all the thanks I get is to be taunted with 
stinginess.” 

“Take some ?” asked Napoleon, pass- 
ing the sugar-bowl to his mother. 

“Never!” she exclaimed, drawing 
back as though a viper had been ex- 
tended to her. “ Take the thing away — 
set it down there by your father’s plate. 
I said I’d use no more sugar till that 
money was made good. When I say a 
thing I mean it.” 

“Now, Priscilla,” remonstrated the 
doctor, “what is the use of breaking in 
on your lifelong habits? You’ll make 
yourself sick, that’s all.” 

“Dr. Lively, you’re trying to tempt 
me : why can’t you uphold me ? It will 
be hard enough at best to make the 
sacrifice. Yes, I shall make myself 
sick, but it won’t hurt anybody but me. 
I can get well again, as I’ve always had 
to.” 

“ Perhaps so, after a druggist’s bill and 
hired girl’s wages. Every spoonful of 
sugar you save may cost you ten dollars.” 

“Then, why don’t you give up that 
vile tobacco ? I won’t use any sugar till 
you do. All you care about is the money 
my sickness will cost — my suffering is 
nothing.” Mrs. Lively raised her cup 
to her lip, then set it back in the saucer 
with a haste that sent the contents splash- 
ing over the sides. 

. “ Bitter ?” asked Napoleon. 

“ Bitter ! of course it’s bitter — bitter as 
tansy. It sends the chills creeping up 
and down my backbone, and the top of 
my head feels as if it was crawling off. 
I believe I shall lose my scalp if I don’t 
use sugar.” 

“To stick it on?” asked Napoleon 
with a stolid face. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful in my only child to 
laugh at a mother’s discomfort I” 

“Ain’t a-laughin’,” he replied. 


“What are you doing if you ain’t 
laughing ?” 

“Eatin’.” 

“Of course: you’re always eating.” 
Again Mrs. Lively essayed her coffee, 
but fell back in her chair with an unutter- 
able look. “Oh, I can’t! — I cannot do 
it !” she exclaimed. 

“Don’t,” Napoleon advised. 

Mrs. Lively with a sudden jerk sat 
bolt upright, as straight as a crock. 
“Who asked you for your advice T' she 
demanded sharply. 

The young Lively swallowed three 
times distinctly, and then replied, while 
shaking the pepper-box over his potato, 
“Nobody.” 

“Then, why can’t you keep it to your- 
self?” 

“Can.” 

“Then, why don’t you do it?” 

“Do.” 

“You exasperating boy! Wouldn’t 
you die if you didn’t get the last word ?” 

“ Dunno.” 

“Look here, Napoleon Lively: you’ve 
got to stop your everlasting talking. 
Your chatter, chatter, chatter just tries 
me to death. I’m not — ” 

Here Dr. Lively, overcome with the 
absurdity of this charge, did a very un- 
usual thing. He broke into laughter so 
prolonged and overwhelming that Mrs. 
Lively, after some signal failures to edge 
in a word of explanation, left the table 
in the midst of the uproar and dashed 
up stairs, where she jerked and pounded 
the beds with a will. 

The next day Mrs. Lively was canning 
some cherries which the doctor had taken 
in pay for a prescription. The air was 
filled with the mingled odor of the boil- 
ing fruit and of burning sealing-wax. 
The cans were acting with outrageous 
perversity, for they were second-hand 
and the covers ill-fitting. Her blood 
was almost up to fainting heat, and she 
was worried all over. She had to do all 
her preserving in a pint cup, as she ex- 
pressed it in her contempt for the dimin- 
utive proportions of the saucepan which 
she was using. 

“ Here ’tis,” said Napoleon, suddenly 
appearing at the kitchen-door. 


THE LIVELIES. 


25 


“ Here what is ?” demanded Mrs. Live- 
ly shortly, without looking up. Her two 
hands were engaged — one in pressing 
the cover on a can, the other in pour- 
ing wax where a bubble persistently ap- 
peared. 

“This,” answered Napoleon. 

“What ?” 

“ Purse.” 

“Purse!” she screamed. “Is the 
money in it?” She dropped her work 
and took eager possession of it. “ Where 
did you find it ?” 

“Big apple tree,” replied Napoleon. 

“Under the apple tree ?” 

“Fork,” was the lad’s emendation. 

“Why in the name of sense do you 
have to bite off all your sentences ? 
They are like a chicken with its head 
off. Do you mean to say that you found 
the purse in the fork of the big apple 
tree ?” 

“Do; and pipe.” 

“ Pipe I of course. One might track 
your father through a howling wilderness 
by the pipes he’d leave at every half 
mile. Don’t let him know you’ve found 
the purse, and to-morrow morning I’m 
going to see if I can’t have some of his 
bills paid before the money is lost, as it 
would be if he should get it in his hands.” 

The next morning Mrs. Lively felt 
under her pillow, as on a former occa- 
sion, and, as on that former occasion, 
found the purse where she had put it 
the night before. She gave it into Na- 
poleon’s hands after breakfast, and de- 
spatched him to settle the bills. In less 
than half an hour he was back. 

“Did you pay all the bills?” she 
asked. 

“No.” 

“ How many ?” 

“None.” 

“Why don’t you go along and pay 
those bills, as I bade you ?” 

“ Have been.” 

“Then, why didn’t you settle the bills ?” 

“ Couldn’t.” 

“ If you don’t tell me what’s the mat- 
ter — Why couldn’t you ?” 

“ No money 1” 

“ No money ? Where’s the purse ?” 

“ Here ’tis and he handed it to her. 


She opened it and found it empty. 
“Where’s the money?” she demanded 
in great alarm. 

“ Dunno.” 

“What did you do with it ?” 

“ Nothin’.” 

By dint of a few dozen more ques- 
tions she arrived at the information that 
when he had opened the purse to pay 
the first bill he found it empty. 

“Why didn’t you look on the floor ?” 

“ Did look.” 

“And feel in your pocket ?” 

“Did.” 

“ I suppose you couldn’t be satisfied 
till you’d opened the purse to count the 
money. You’re a perfect Charity Cock- 
loft with your curiosity. And then you 
went off into one of your dreams, and 
forgot to clasp the purse. Go look for it 
right at the spot where you counted the 
money.” 

“ Didn’t count it.” 

“Well, where you opened the purse in 
the street.” 

“ Didn’t open it in the street.” 

“The money just crawled out of the 
purse, did it ?” 

“ Dunno.” 

The house was searched, the store, 
the street, but all in vain. Dr. Lively 
was questioned : Did he take the money 
from the purse when it was under her 
pillow ? He didn’t even know before 
that the purse had been found. The 
house had been everywhere securely 
fastened, and the bed-room door locked. 

“Well, it’s very mysterious,” said Mrs. 
Lively. “That money went just as the 
other did in Chicago. We must be 
haunted'by the spirit of some burglar or 
miser.” 

Cards were posted in the stores and 
post-office, offering five dollars reward 
for the lost money. 

“A pretty affair,” said Mrs. Lively, 
“to pay out five dollars just for some- 
body’s shiftlessness 1” 

“ To recover sixty we can afford to pay 
five,” said the doctor. 

Shortly after this an express package 
from Chicago was delivered for the doc- 
tor at his door. Mrs. Lively was quite 
excited, hoping she scarce knew what 


26 


THE LIVELIES. 


from this arrival. The half hour till the 
doctor came home to tea seemed inter- 
minable. She sat by watching eagerly 
as the doctor cut the cords and broke 
the seals and unwrapped — what ? Some 
things very beautiful, but nothing that 
could answer that ceaseless, persistent 
cry of the human, “What shall we eat, 
what shall we drink, and wherewithal 
shall we be clothed ?” 

“Nothing but some more of those 
miserable sea-weeds!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Lively, “ and the express on them was 
fifty cents.” 

“ They are beautiful,” cried the doctor 
with enthusiasm. 

“ Beautiful 1 What have we got to 
do with the beautiful ? We’ve done 
with the beautiful for ever. I feel as if 
I never wanted to see anything beautiful 
again. And you’ll have to spend your 
time collecting geodes to send back for 
the miserable trash. I hate those old 
sea-weeds. You left everything we own- 
ed to perish in that fire, and brought 
away only that case of sea-weeds. I’ll 
take it some time to start the fire in the 
stove. Beautiful ! What right have you 
to think of the beautiful? It’s a dis- 
grace to be as poor as we are. The very 
bread for this supper isn’t paid for, and 
never will be. Come to supper I” She 
snapped out these last words in a way 
inimitable and indescribable. 

“ Priscilla,” said the husband in a sad, 
solemn way, “ I never knew anybody in 
my life who seemed so utterly exasper- 
ated by poverty as you.” 

“You never knew anybody else that 
was tried by such poverty.” 

“I saw thousands after the Chicago 
fire.” 

“Yes, when they had the excitement 
all about them.” 

“And who is the object of your exas- 
peration ? Who is responsible for your 
circumstances? Who but God.?” 

“God didn’t lose that sixty dollars, 
and He didn’t lose that money in Chi- 
cago.” . 

“Well, now, my dear, I’m working 
hard at my book, and I think I’m mak- 
ing a good thing of it. I hope it’ll bring 
us a lift.” 


“A book on that horrid subject isn’t 
going to sell. I wouldn’t touch it with 
a pair of tongs : I’d run from it. No- 
body’ll read it but a few old long-haired 
geologists. I’d like to know what good 
all your geology and botany and those 
other horrid things ever did you. You 
couldn’t make a cent out of all them 
put together. You’re always paying ex- 
pressage on fossils and bugs and sea- 
weeds and trash. All that comes of it 
is just waste.” 

“ Does anything but waste come of 
your fault-finding ?” 

“Now, who’s finding fault?” 

Dr. Lively left the table and took' 
down his case of sea-weeds, and turned 
it over in his hand. 

“The only thing that came through 
the fire,” he said musingly. 

“And of what account is it?” said 
Mrs. Lively. 

“ It may prove to be of value,” he 
said. “To-night’s addition will make 
my collection very fine. I may take 
some premiums on it at fairs.” He sat 
down and began to compare the speci- 
mens just received with his previous 
collection. 

“ What is the use of looking over those 
things — miserable sea-weeds? You’d 
better bring in some wood and draw 
some water : it nearly breaks my back 
to draw water up that rickety-rackety 
well.” 

“Good Heavens!” cried Dr. Lively, 
springing to his feet like one electrified. 
“What does it mean ?” 

Mrs. Lively gazed at him : his hand 
was full of money, greenbacks. 

“ I found them here, among the sea- 
weeds in the case.” He counted them 
out on the table, Mrs. Lively standing 
by watching him, for once speechless. 
“It’s just the amount we lost, and the 
same bills. See here : ten five-hundred- 
dollar bills, and this change that we lost 
in Chicago; and four ten-dollar bills 
and four fives that were lost here. They 
are the same bills. Who put them here ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Lively 
in a low tone: “I didn’t.” She spoke 
as though she was dealing with some- 
thing supernatural. 


THE LIVELIES. 


27 


In the case of sea-weeds, the only 
thing that came through the fire ! How 
often had she pronounced it worthless ! 
What a spite she had conceived against 
it ! How the sight of it had all along 
exasperated her ! 

“ It is very strange,” said the doctor, 
believing in his secret soul that his wife 
had put the money there and forgotten 
it. “ Have you no recollection of putting 
the money here ?” he said cautiously. 
“Try to think.” 

“ I never put it there,” she said in a 
subdued, dazed way ; “ I know I never 
did.” 

Napoleon came in eating an apple. 
He was informed of the discovery, and 
closely questioned. “ Don’t know noth- 
in’ ’bout it,” he declared. “Go back to 
Chicago ?” he asked. 

“Yes,” answered the doctor. “The 
money’s here, however unaccountably : 
we’ll accept the fact and thank God.” 
The doctor’s lip quivered, and Mrs. 
Lively burst into tears. “We will go 
back home, to the most wonderful city 
in the world. If possible, we’ll buy the 
very lot where we lived, and build a 
little house. Many of those who lived 
in the neighborhood, my old patients, 
will return, and so I shall have a prac- 
tice begun. I shall start for Chicago 
in the morning. You can make an auc- 
tion of the few traps we have here, and 
follow as soon as possible. You’ll find 

me at Mrs. B ’s boarding-house on 

Congress street.” 

There was some further planning, so 
that it was eleven o’clock before they 
retired. Napoleon went to bed hungry 
that night, if indeed since the Chicago 
fire he had ever gone to bed in any 
other condition. He dropped off to 
sleep, however, and all through his 
dreams he was eating — oh such good 
things ! — juicy steaks, feathery biscuits, 
flaky pies, baked apples and cream. 
He awoke with an empty feeling, an 
old familiar feeling, which had often 
caused him to awake contemplating a 
midnight raid on the cupboard. But 
poor Napoleon had been restrained by 
conscientious scruples and by the fear 
of his mother’s tongue, for he appre- 


ciated the altered condition of the fam- 
ily. But now they were all rich again 
there was no longer any necessity for 
pinching his stomach. There were in 
the cupboard some biscuits intended for 
breakfast, and some cold ham. He re- 
membered how tempting they had look- 
ed as his mother set them away. Now 
they fairly haunted him as he lay think- 
ing how favorable the moonlight was to 
his contemplated burglary. He left his 
bed, not stealthily : he was not of a 
nature to be specially mortified by dis- 
covery. He made his way to the dining- 
room. In one of the recesses made by 
the chimney Dr. Lively had constructed 
a kind of cupboard, and in the other 
recess he had put up some shelves, 
where their few books and the case of 
sea-weeds lay. Napoleon cut some gen- 
erous slices of ham, and with the bis- 
cuits constructed several sandwiches. 
Then he seated himself by the window 
for the benefit of the moonlight. This 
brought him within a few feet of the 
shelves where the sea-weeds were. There 
he sat in his night-dress, his bare feet on 
the chair-round, vigorously eating his 
sandwiches. Suddenly he heard a soft, 
stealthy, gliding noise in the hall. It 
was as though trailing drapery was 
sweeping over the naked floor. He 
gave a gulping swallow, paused in his 
eating and listened intently. The still- 
ness of death reigned through the house. 
He crammed half a sandwich in his 
mouth and began a cautious chewing. 
Again the trailing sound, and again his 
jaws were stilled. At the door entered 
a tall figure in flowing white robes. 
Steadily it advanced upon him, seeming 
to walk or glide on the air. For once 
there was something in which he was 
more interested than in eating. At last 
the ghost stood close beside him, and he 
saw with his staring eyes that it wore a 
veil and carried its left hand in its 
bosom. The boy sat rooted with horror, 
his tongue loaded, his cheeks puffed 
with his feast, afraid to swallow lest the 
noise of the act should reveal him. The 
figure withdrew its hand from its bosom : 
it held a roll of bankbills. It reached 
out for the case of sea-weeds, laid the 


28 


THE LIVELIES. 


bills carefully between the cards, return- 
ed these to the case and the case to the 
shelf. It stood a moment in the broad 
moonlight, then lifted the veil, and re- 
vealed to the astonished boy the face of 
his mother. She stood within two feet 
of him, her eyes on his face, but she did 
not speak. 

“Mother! mother!” he cried with a 
sense of the supernatural on him, “ what’s 
the matter ?” He seized her by the arm : 
he shook her. 

“What is it ? what do you want ? where 
am I ? what does this mean ?" were 
questions she asked like one newly 
awakened. “ What are you doing here, 
Napoleon ?” 

“Eatin’.” 

“ Eating ! what for ?” 

“ Hungry.” 

“What time is it ?” 

“ Dunno.” 

“What am I doing here ?” 

“Hidin’ money;” and Napoleon took 
a bite from his long- neglected sandwich. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Mean that." 

“ Stop bobbing off your sentences. 
Tell me what it all means.” 

Napoleon stood up, laid his sand- 
wiches on the chair, took down the sea- 
weeds and showed her the bills among 
them. 

“ Who put these here ?” 

“You.” 

“When ?” 

“Just now.” 

“ I did not.” 

“You did.” 

By this time Dr. Lively, who had been 


restless and excited, was awake, and 
down he came to the family gathering. 
By dint of persistent inquiries he at 
length arrived at the facts in the case, 
and drew the inevitable conclusion that 
his wife had been walking in her sleep, 
and that to her somnambulism were to 
be referred the mysterious emptyings of 
his purse. 

Mrs. Lively was mortified and sub- 
dued at being convicted of all the mis- 
chief which she had so persistently 
charged to her husband. And she said 
this to him with her arms in a very un- 
usual position — that is, around her hus- 
band’s neck. 

“Oh, you needn’t feel that way,” he 
said, choking back the quick tears. “ If 
you hadn’t hid that money maybe we 
never could have got back home. Biit 
I’ll hide my own money, after this, while 
I’m awake : I sha’n’t give you another 
chance to hide money in sea -weeds. 
Strange, I should have snatched just 
those sea-weeds, and left everything 
else to burn ! All these things make me 
feel that God has been very near us.” 

“Yes,” said the wife, “He has whip- 
ped me till He’s made me mind.” 

The husband kissed her good-bye, 
for he was starting for Chicago. Then 
he stepped out into the dewy morning, 
and hurried along the silent streets, wit- 
nesses of the crushed aspirations of the 
thousands who had gone out from them. 
But he thought not of this. A gorgeous 
Aurora was coming up the eastern 
heights : his lost love was found. He 
was going home : all earth was glorified. 





DESHLER ^ DESHLER, 


29 


DESHLER & DESHLER; 

OR, MY LIFE AS A BOOK-AGENT. 
TWO PARTS.— I. 


I HAD been summoned to the princi- 
pal’s office, and the summons set my 
heart fluttering. True, it was the end 
of the month, when the teachers re- 
ceived their wages : of course that was 
why I had been called ; and yet the fear 
of discovery kept me all the while ner- 
vous and suspicious. 

I was composition-teacher in the sem- 
inary, and fifty dollars a month is what 
I earned. Doubtless it seems to many 
women, with their pitiful wages or no 
wages, that with fifty dollars a month I 
must have been happy and independent. 
But wait: out of this fifty dollars there 
had to be taken forty for board of self, 
baby and nurse-girl, and I had to bear 
the humiliating consciousness that favor, 
if not charity, was shown me in these 
figures, for the school was one of high 
grade, where the arrangements were ex- 
pensive and where the boarders fared 
well. Then, too, it was just at the close 
of the rebellion, when prices were ex- 
ceedingly high. Out of the ten dollars 
which the principal handed to me at the 
month’s end there remained to be taken 
the nurse’s wages, two dollars per week. 
Less than two dollars a month was all 
that I cleared. And my salary was for 
ten months only: during the summer 
vacation my income would cease. 

How I ever contrived to dress myself 
and child in that stylish young ladies' 
school I do not know. I suppose it was 
by darning and scouring, turning and 
piecing, and all the other innumerable 
shifts that only decayed gentlefolks 
know of. Yet such people generally 
have some wardrobe of better days on 
which to exercise these innumerable 
shifts. I had not even this : I had part- 
ed with mine, piece by piece, as I was 
closer and closer beleaguered. My last 
silk dress— it was an apple -green— had 
helped to pay my passage on a block- 


ade-runner to Halifax. I was at the 
South, you see, during the war. 

I had been called to the principal’s 
office, I was saying. He wanted to pay 
me my month’s wages, that was all ; so 
I breathed again. And yet there was a 
steely, averted look about his eyes which 
kept me from breathing with perfect free- 
dom. Well, the month’s hard work was 
ended, and I held my wages in my hand. 
How was I ever to lay up anything for 
Baby at this rate ? How were we to live 
through the coming vacation, now but 
one month removed ? How, indeed, to 
come nearer,' were the pressing wants of 
this very day to be met? There were 
things that Baby must have. Weeks be- 
fore I had been notified by the house- 
authorities that she was unpresentable, 
shabby. As if I hadn’t known it long 
before they ! My own last pair of gaiters 
were brown and frayed, and next Sun- 
day soiled kids must keep me from 
church. 

These questions came to me as I sat 
in my room, looking vacantly at the ten- 
dollar bill which the principal had hand- 
ed me. And it was not the first time 
they had come to me. At every month’s 
end through all the nine they had pos- 
sessed me. No day, indeed, had passed 
that they had not rapped importunately 
at my brain, and in the nights I would 
wake suddenly with two cruel, haunting 
dreads — of Want and Discovery— like 
ghostly hands on my heart. There was 
not in all the world the person to whom 
I could look for help. Why I was thus 
isolated it need not concern you to know. 
A gulf had come between me and those 
who once sheltered and cherished me. 
I can recall now the feeling with which 
in those sheltered days I read and heard 
about the wolf at the door. It was all 
so vague and meaningless. I never 
could make it seem real to me that any- 


30 


DESHLER <27^ DESHLER. 


body was suffering from poverty, just as 
I could not believe when a child that it 
hurt my pfeymate when I pinched her 
as her pinches hurt me. And did the 
dread of the wolf ever hurt and drag 
another soul into the depths as it did 
mine ? Is it gnawing at the hearts of 
the countless sad-eyed women and chil- 
dren and men who pass me in the crowd- 
ed streets "i 

Well, something must be done. I had 
said this a thousand times before, but 
now the summer vacation was only a 
month off, and Baby and I had no hole 
in the earth where we could hide away 
and die to the world, as the happy snakes 
do when life grows uncomfortable. Then, 
too, my teacher’s place I held by a thread. 
Of what account would be my ability, 
my faithful service, against the odds on 
the other side ? Something must be 
done. I had questioned, over and over, 
if I must continue to teach — if there was 
not some work in which I could make 
more money or spend less — some work 
in which no one need trouble himself 
about my past life. 

I doubt if anybody ever read news- 
paper advertisements as industriously as 
I did during the following three weeks. 
I was seeking an avenue, an escape. 
From my reading it seemed that all the 
States were ringing with calls for agents. 
I read and studied, and wondered what 
this and that extraordinary business could 
be. I didn’t see, if the advertisers were 
stating facts about the money to be made 
in their various agencies, why there should 
be any work -hunters or want -pursued 
people left. Ladies and gentlemen were 
assured that they could earn more mon- 
ey during their leisure hours at this and 
that agency than in any other earthly 
business. It appeared to me that the 
advertisers had better give themselves 
the profitable agencies that had more 
money in them than any other earthly 
business. I believed in my heart that 
these wonderful businesses were all, or the 
most of them, humbugs, and yet I studied 
the advertisements with a vague, hun- 
gry, fascinated interest, though without 
arriving at any decision. 

About a week before the school was to 


close for the year I was summoned to an- 
other interview with the principal. Now 
indeed there was fear and trembling in 
my heart. My first glance at the prin- 
cipal’s face satisfied me that I was over- 
taken — that the grave of my secret had 
been found and laid open. First, he 
settled with me for the month, not quite 
ended. “ Read this,” he then said, hand- 
ing me an open letter. 

I read it through, and in the writing I 
recognized the cruel hand that had struck 
me. 

‘‘Is this true?” the principal asked 
transfixing me with a look. 

‘‘It is,” I answered in a voice trem- 
bling in spite of a fierce resolve to keep 
it steady. 

‘‘Then, of course, your services will 
not be needed another year. I have 
spoken with no one about your unfortu- 
nate history : I am the only one here 
acquainted with the facts, and for the 
sake of avoiding scandal I desire to have 
you remain until the close of the school. 
I received that letter nearly a month ago, 
but I did not wish to embarrass your 
short stay in the seminary ; and I would 
not have spoken of my discovery till the 
last moment but that I wished to give 
you time to plan for the future. I might 
have excused the facts, but I cannot 
overlook the deception in your course, 
even to the concealment of your name.” 

‘‘And yet,” I had the boldness to say, 
‘‘you are purposing to continue the de- 
ception and the concealment till the close 
of your term. Why not publish a card 
giving the world my name and telling 
the story of my shame ?” 

‘‘ It would create scandal and bring the 
school into disrepute,” he answered. 

‘‘ And am I bound to bring myself into 
disrepute with all I meet and through all 
time ? Before I may ask a man for work 
must I lay open my history to his gaze ? 
Is it never to be permitted to my heart 
to know its own bitterness ? Must every 
stranger intermeddle with it ?” 

‘‘No, no,” said the man with some 
feeling: ‘‘matters are not so hopeless. 
You are not bound to lay open your life 
to every employer. There are many 
kinds of work available to you in which 


DESHLER DESHLER, 


31 


present fidelity is all that can concern an 
employer. But a young ladies’ school is 
a different matter entirely. You have 
given me very faithful service. As a 
teacher of composition you have excep- 
tional ability. I shall not readily fill 
your place. I should be glad to retain 
you, but it is out of the question. I hope 
you may find another situation, but you 
have no right to engage with a school 
without giving your employer your full 
confidence. If you do make an engage- 
ment without this, it is a swindle, just as 
truly as when a man sells knowingly a 
diseased horse as sound.” He spoke 
incisively. 

” I think you are right,” I replied, 
‘‘and I thank you for setting things in 
this sharp light. I have been sorely be- 
wildered : I was so environed.” 

“Yes,” he said, ‘‘these fatal steps take 
us always into hedged places, where 
escape costs a struggle.” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” cried my impatient spirit, 
‘‘ I know it — oh, I know it all!” 

This interview decided me to investi- 
gate some of those calls for agents which 
I had been studying ; but which ? I de- 
cided against all those that called for 
money or postage-stamps : I would run 
no risks. While hesitating between one 
guaranteeing three hundred dollars per 
month, and another ten dollars a day, I 
came upon a notice which decided my 
fate: ‘‘Wanted — Agents for Horace 
Greeley’s American Conflict^' etc. etc. 

' Now, I had heard of Horace Greeley 
— he was a reality : here was something 
tangible. A sight of his name was like 
encountering a friend in a land of stran- 
gers and in a sea of perplexities. This 
call was surely honest and trustworthy. 
I immediately despatched a letter of in- 
quiry to the Hartford publishers. 

One morning shortly after the Latin 
teacher handed me with a sharp look a 
bulky post-office package, which brought 
the color in a tingling flood to my cheek. 
The envelope was stamped with the very 
call for agents which I had answered. 
I hurried off to my room and eagerly 
tore open the package. It contained a 
bewildering number of circulars, one of 
which, ‘‘Confidential Terms to Agents,” 


fairly dazed me. Forty per cent, com- 
mission the agent was allowed. The in- 
formation excited me greatly. I had 
supposed that on the sale of a five-dollar 
volume, for instance, there would be a 
commission of fifty or sixty cents to 
the agent ; but two dollars ! This profit 
seamed so enormous that I began to sus- 
pect the publishers of proposing some 
swindling business to me. And this 
feeling was strengthened by the reading 
of a lengthy circular, Instructions to 
Agents,” which they were earnestly rec- 
ommended to commit to memory before 
starting out to canvass, with the assur- 
ance that in the practice of these ‘‘ In- 
structions” success was certain. I felt 
humiliated in reading this circular — not 
that anything dishonest was proposed : 
this I was forced to acknowledge — but 
there was a system of tactics marked out 
for the use of the agent against an un- 
suspecting public. The truth is, I was 
getting a glimpse of the strategies, if not 
the tricks, of trade, and I was startled. 
And yet there it was, printed in great 
emphasized letters, that without a close 
observance o£ the “Instructions” failure 
inevitably awaited the book-agent. I 
was sorely perplexed, but I happily de- 
cided to take my perplexities to a lady 
acquaintance, a mother of daughters, a 
wise, discreet woman in whose judgment 
I could confide. She at once set my 
conscience at rest on the subject of the 
forty-per-cent, matter, assuring me that 
it was a common profit in traffic with any 
goods. 

“A hundred per cent, is no very un- 
usual profit,” she continued. “You’ll 
earn your money twice over, poor dear I 
You’ll find getting subscriptions and 
delivering these great volumes pitiless 
work. I wouldn’t do it for the money 
that everybody together will make in the 
whole enterprise.” 

“You wouldn’t do it for the money’s 
sake, but you would to get a deathly 
weight off your heart,” I replied. 

“I could never leave my shelter till 
pushed out,” she said: “I would cling 
till the last moment to the roof above 
me. I could never, never step out in 
the storm as you are proposing to do.” 


32 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


I did not tell her that I had been 
pushed out. I was growing very weak, 
and was trembling in every fibre. I 
hastened to divert my thoughts. 

“Read this dreadful circular,” I said, 
handing her the “ Instructions to Agents,” 
“and tell me what you see in it.” ^ 

“I see nothing dreadful,” she answered 
when she had run it over. “If I were 
to send you out on any mission that 
would bring you in contact with people 
— to solicit aid for the poor or for an or- 
phan asylum or for our wounded sol- 
diers — I should have to give you in- 
structions much like these to ensure your 
success. You would need to be cau- 
tioned against pushing in the faces of 
people’s prejudices, against self-asser- 
tion, against impatience. I should have 
to advise you to humor people’s harm- 
less whims ; to make the most of any 
prominent name you might capture ; to 
use every honest argument and endea- 
vor, and, in short, to do essentially what 
you are instructed in this circular to do.” 

So my conscience was relieved. Then 
I asked the lady’s advice about under- 
taking the work. 

“You must counsel with your own 
heart,” she answered. “You know what 
courage there is in you. As for me, I 
would sooner the earth should open and 
swallow me than to undertake such a 
thing.” 

“And so should I.” 

Yet in less than an hour thereafter I 
had mailed a letter to the publisher ac- 
cepting the agency for Greeley’s A7ner- 
ican Cofijlict. When the school was 
closed I put my child to board in the 
country with a woman who was a stran- 
ger to me, but who had been recom- 
mended as motherly and trustworthy. I 
could never write it here how I suffered 
when I turned my back on the little 
hands outstretched to me, and ran along 
the village street to the station with my 
hands over my ears to shut out my ba- 
by’s crying, my veil drawn to hide my 
own. I climbed into the car just mov- 
ing off, where I cried till it seemed to me 
that I never could stop crying. 

A ride of three hours brought me to 
the city to which I had been appointed 


agent for The Ainericatt Conflict. It 
was about three o’clock in the afternoon, 
and very warm. I had never been in 
the city before, and did not know the 
name of a person in it ; so when I found 
myself amid the bustle and hurry of the 
great railroad depot, jostled and crowd- 
ed, where everybody was full of self, I 
felt more of a nobody than ever. I was 
nobody to all the world except Baby ; I 
was all the world to her. This thought 
made me strong to turn my back on self 
and to brave all things for her sweet 
sake. 

I turned to one of the importunate 
hackmen and inquired if he knew of a 
quiet, respectable boarding-house of 
moderate terms and convenient to the 
business of the city. Yes, he knew just 
the place. Who ever heard of a hack- 
man who didn’t know just the place? 
In due time I was set down before a 
dilapidated -looking wooden house, de- 
cayed and gray with age, which was, 
however, finely located for my purpose. 
I was shown into a cheerless sitting- 
room, where I was soon joined by a 
man of more sombre aspect even than 
the house. He was very tall and very 
thin, with a bald head and a faded blue 
eye. I asked him if I could get board 
in the house, and he asked me if I could 
give him city references, adding, “We 
never take lady-boarders into the house 
without references.” I wondered if he 
took men-boarders without references. 

I hadn’t learned then that the first atti- 
tude of the mind toward an unprotected 
woman is one of suspicion — that it is a 
sin for a woman to be friendless. And 
surely the case must be exceptional: 
somebody must be at fault when a wo- 
man has no hand she can grasp. 

I had supposed that I had gone into a 
business where there would be no rakine 
up of the dead past, yet here I was in 
trouble at the very start. City references 
were demanded. I did not know a per- 
son in the city, and of course did not 
wish to. I had meant to earn what 
money I could, and then to go to some 
new place where nobody had ever known 
me, and live as much away from the 
world as was possible. 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


33 


“ Can you give me references out of 
the city?” he asked when I had told 
him that I was a stranger in the place — 
” the name of your pastor, for instance ? 
I suppose you’re a member of some 
Church : it’s your duty to be.” 

“Yes,” I answered, ‘‘a member of the 
Presbyterian Church.” 

“Ah !” he said, smiling in a repressed 
way, as if afraid of smiling, “that is my 
Church. I used to be a Presbyterian 
preacher when I was a young man.” 

My heart warmed toward him, and I 
thought his must toward me ; so with an 
outburst I said, “ I am about to engage 
in a work which is out of my sphere : I 
would rather my friends did not know 
about it.” This was true as far as it 
went. 

There came a cold, blue look into his 
face : “What work is it ?” 

“I am a book-agent,” I answered, my 
face burning as the confession for the 
first time passed my lips. 

“ Oh, you needn’t be ashamed of that,” 
he replied. “I’ve been a book-agent my- 
self.” 

Here was another bond of sympathy 
between us. If he had suffered as I was 
suffering, racked by misgivings and hu- 
miliations, he must feel for me. But, 
alas ! he had not suffered as I was suf- 
fering : he was of a different nature ; 
and then, too, he was not a woman for 
the first time facing the world. 

“ Did you make anything at the busi- 
ness, and is it very hard ?” I knew that 
my eyes must have an eager, hungry 
look in them as these questions came, 
forced out by my vague fears. 

“ Some people can make money at a 
book-agency, and some can’t. I did 
very well, for I chose a book that I knew 
the Lord would bless — one that he would 
like to see in the hands of all the people. 
It was Mr. Headley’s Sacred Mountains. 
Then, besides, I was used to men and 
their ways, and knew how to feel for 
their weak spots, and how to overper- 
suade them. If I fell in with a religious 
man, I would tell him about the sweet 
piety of the book and its devotional 
spirit. If the man wasn’t religious. I’d 
recommend it for something else. I re- 
3 


member a man once swore at me and 
ordered me out of his office — said he 
didn’t want any of that religious twad- 
dle. ‘ This book is not religious any- 
thing,’ I said. ‘ It’s solid history and 
geography, presented in such a fasci- 
nating way that it will create in your 
children a taste for reading and study.’ 
Then I turned to a part that was simply 
descriptive and read it to him. Well, 
that man took two copies for a pair of 
twin boys he had. Yes, I did very well 
in the book business, but I should say 
that you wouldn’t do much. Women 
can’t. They ain’t strong enough for the 
walking and the standing around and the 
talking : it takes a sight of talking and 
arguing and persuading. Sometimes a 
man has got to be just worried into sub- 
scribing — teased into it. And then a 
woman can’t go into men’s offices and 
shops : ’tain’t proper. No, God intend- 
ed woman to be the vine, and He intend- 
ed man to be the upholding tree: He 
never intended woman to go out into the 
world.” 

He told me much more about God’s 
intentions, which I only half heard. I 
was trying to think out something for 
myself. I did, however, listen as he 
went on to tell about a woman, a book- 
agent, who had been stopping with him 
last week. “ She was agent for a med- 
ical book,” he said. “She didn’t make 
enough to pay her board : I had to keep 
her trunk and clothes. You’d better find 
some other business.” 

I tried to speak, but found myself 
crying. 

“Oh, you needn’t feel downhearted: 
you can find some other work.” 

“What?” I managed to articulate. 

“Well, you can*go out as sewing-girl. 
Don’t you understand dressmaking ?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you can learn it.” 

Oh, what did he know about the pres- 
ent pressure and my empty purse, and 
about Baby ? Three dollars a week I 
was paying for her board. 

“And you ought to learn it, so as to 
make your own dresses. A person in 
your circumstances ought not to hire her 
dressmaking: she ought to understand 


34 


DESHLER 6- DESHLER. 


doing everything for herself. You’ll al- 
ways be hard pressed until you learn to 
do all sorts of work for yourself, instead 
of hiring. Now, we need a dining-room 
girl : ours left day before yesterday, and 
we pay good wages — two and a half a 
v'eek to a first-rate girl.” 

Ah ! well, again, how was he to know 
what I had been? and indeed what 
did my had-beens have to do with the 
matter ? 

“Our dining-room work is very light 
— nothing but play: everything’s very 
convenient. I try to make everything 
comfortable for my servants : they have 
feelings as well as other people. But I 
don’t believe you’re strong enough for 
the work : you look sickly.” 

I was too much tired then to remark 
the inconsistencies in his words. I was 
feeling so disheartened and fearful about 
my venture that had he said three dol- 
lars a week for a first-rate girl, or if Ba- 
by’s board had been two and a half a 
week, I think I should have engaged for 
the dining-room place at once. 

“No,” I said, “I must try the agency: 

I have spent money for the outfit, and I 
mean to try it.” 

“What book are you agent for ?” 

“Greeley’s American Conflict." 

“ That is a very fine work, I have un- 
derstood. There ought to be patriotism 
enough in the country to sell that. If 
you can succeed with any book, you can 
with that. Every loyal man who loves 
his country will take a copy. Get good 
names to start with.” 

“Will you subscribe for it ?” I had the 
courage to ask. “Your name will be an 
introduction to the boarders of the house 
and in this neighborhood.” 

“ No, no, I couldn’t subscribe,” he an- 
swered, looking nervous and uneasy. 
“I’d like to help you along. I believe 
in charity : I always help everybody I 
can, but — ” 

“ I will board out the subscription,” I 
suggested. 

“That wouldn’t help the matter any: 
I’d have to pay cash for what you’d eat, 
and for the wear and tear of things. I 
have to buy every mouthful that’s eaten 
in this house, and provisions are very | 


high : steak’s eighteen cents a pound, 
and I have to give all my boarders good 
fare. I’ve given my best days to the 
service of the Lord, and now I’m left, 
like the old wornout dray-horse, to shift 
for myself.” 

I almost expected to hear him add, 
“The Lord is very ungrateful.” “No,” 
he continued, “ I can’t subscribe ; and 
there’s no use in my subscribing. It’s 
likely some of the boarders will take it : 
it’s their duty to, and I’ll have a chance 
to read it all I wish.” 

“Can you give me board?” I again 
asked. 

“Well, I suppose I must. I always 
like to help a person along, especially 
an unprotected female; and you’re a 
sister in the Church. I suppose you 
haven’t any too much money and he 
smiled as though he had made a good 
joke. “A room on the third floor would 
likely suit you.” 

I recalled the low, smothered look the 
house had presented from the exterior, 
and I could easily conjecture what a 
room on the third floor was like. But 
the days when I was allowed a choice 
were passed. 

“For the rooms on that floor I get ten 
dollars a week — in advance.” 

That last word sent my heart into 
my throat. I had but two dollars and 
fifty cents in the world. I ought to have 
known that my board would be demand- 
ed in advance, but I did not : I had 
hoped that I should have a chance to 
earn it before the end of the week. 

“Can’t you give me a little time to 
earn my board? You can hold my 
trunk in pledge. If I have any success 
whatever I shall earn my week’s board.” 

I wish I could show you how that ex- 
minister received this suggestion. He 
screwed himself this way and that on 
his chair ; he ran his fingers through his 
scant hair; he rubbed his hands to- 
gether; he buttoned his black alpaca 
coat and unbuttoned it ; he crossed his 
legs ; he uncrossed them ; he stood up ; 
he sat down. 

“No, no, I couldn’t do anything of the 
kind : it’s no way to do business at all. 
I’ve got my store-room full of pawned 


DESHLER <Sr= DESHLER. 


35 


trunks already. If you were a man, you 
might have something I could wear, but 
your ribbons and fixings wouldn’t be of 
any use to me : I lost my daughter years 
ago. Besides, it’s against my rules and 
principles to take in women without ref- 
erences. I don’t want to be hard on 
you, you understand, but I’ve got to look 
out for myself. ‘ He that provides not 
for his own household is worse than an 
infidel.’ You’ll have to go somewhere 
else. Put your trust in the Lord and 
you’ve nothing to fear ; but you can’t get 
board anywhere in this city on credit.” 

I took out my purse and handed him 
the two dollars and a half. “This is all 
I have,” I said : “ I suppose it will pay 
my way till morning.” 

“Well, I don’t want to strain matters 
with you : you can stay till after break- 
fast to-morrow.” 

I rose, drew down my veil and left the 
house. Now indeed I felt that I was 
pursued : the wolf was verily on my 
track. I must do something, and that 
at once. I walked along the street 
blindly, trying to recall something of the 
“ Instructions to Agents.” I had sup- 
posed that I knew them by heart, but 
they had all gone from me. On I 
walked, because I knew not what else 
to do. I looked at the magnificent trade- 
palaces on either hand, filled with the 
products of every clime and people, and 
questioned why I was walking those 
strange streets penniless, utterly wretch- 
ed except for my love of Baby and the 
feeling that I must brave everything for 
her. I looked again, and I was passing 
between magnificent residences. “Ah !” 
I thought, “ if the women in these beau- 
tiful homes knew of the wretched spirit 
passing by their steps, how the doors 
right and left would fly open !” 

But I hadn’t time for such thoughts. 
By persistent effort I succeeded at length 
in recalling something in the “Instruc- 
tions ” about getting influential names to 
start with — the names of ministers and 
pastors of churches. Then I stepped 
into a corner grocery and asked to see 
a city directory. Turning to the churches, 
I took down the names of the city pas- 
tors, laughing a little at what I was plot- 


ting against them as they sat perhaps, in 
quiet unconsciousness, in their studies. I 
found that I was in Washington street, 
and one of my victims, a Presbyterian 
minister, lived in Washington street, 
about five blocks up the street I conjec- 
tured by comparing numbers — six and a 
half I found when I had walked the dis- 
tance. 

I never contemplated any house with 
such trepidation as that minister’s. I 
think I know how a condemned criminal 
feels at the first view of his prison. I 
never marched into the cannon’s mouth, 
but I believe I could do the thing with a 
happy heart compared with the one I 
carried up the steps of that minister’s 
house. He was at home, and I was 
shown at once to his study. There, 
printed on the air between my face and 
his, were some lines from the “ Instruc- 
tions “Call the gentleman by name; 
introduce yourself with a respectful but 
fearless voice and manner, as though you 
were proud of your business.” How 
was I to do this when I was ready to 
sink into the floor ? I spoke. My voice 
sounded strange, and seemed to come 
from I know not what quarter. I was 
ready to cry, as, indeed, it seemed to me 
I always was in those days. 

“And what do you wish of me ?” ask- 
ed the minister in a voice oh so cold ! 

I wondered if that was the voice with 
which he dispensed consolation to his 
flock. 

“ I should like to have you subscribe 
for this book.” 

“I can’t afford it,” he replied briefly. 

“ I mean, of course, that I will present 
you with a copy of the book,” I ex- 
plained. 

“You can’t afford to do that.” 

“ The influence of your name will more 
than compensate me.” 

“ I cannot endorse a book that I have 
not examined. I cannot lend my name 
blindly : I might mislead others.” 

I respected the justice of his position, 
and turned to go, forgetting all the ready- 
made arguments in the “Instructions.” 
The minister followed me to the door. 
How contemptibly sheepish I felt ! 

“One of my elders lives in that house 


36 


DESHLER b* DESHLER. 


just across the street,” the minister said. 
” He is one of the most benevolent men 
in the city, and one of the most influen- 
tial. If you can get his name, it will go 
much farther than mine.” 

As I crossed the street to a grand 
house with a stone front, I saw the mas- 
sive door closing on a gentleman who 
had just gone in. The bell was answer- 
ed immediately by the same gentleman. 
If this is the most benevolent man in the 
city, he does not advertise his benevo- 
lence in his face, I thought. It was thin, 
and caution was its prominent expres- 
sion. Politely but coldly I was invited 
to a parlor. With a statuesque face he 
heard my story. Then he handed me a 
card. 

‘‘ Come to the bank to-morrow morn- 
ing at nine o’clock,” he said. 

There remained nothing for me to do 
but to leave the house. Mindful of the 
instructions to start my list with influen- 
tial names, I decided to abide my in- 
terview with the banker, and to return to 
my boarding-place, for it was now nearly 
five o’clock, and I was faint and hungry. 
But in the mean time I was not idle. 
There was a map of the city in the 
house, and I studied it faithfully. 

The next morning, at a few minutes 
before nine, I found myself at the bank, 
and punctually at nine the gentleman 
whom I was to meet came into the office, 
said good-morning to me in a reserved 
way, carefully inspected his office for a 
few moments, and then sat down at his 
desk. How could I hope for anything 
from that marble man ? 

‘‘I will subscribe for your book,” he 
said. 

My heart gave a sudden leap, and I 
tried to say ‘‘Thank you,” but not a 
sound passed my lips. I opened the 
subscription-book, laid it before him, and 
stood by watching as he wrote ‘‘John S. 
Waddell” in queer, cramped letters. I 
saw the name in the same queer, cramp- 
ed letters many a time aftei this on bank- 
cheques, and never without an inclina- 
tion to carry it to my lips. He dried it 
with blotting-paper and handed the book 
back to me. I received it in silence, 
though feeling as if I should like to go 


down on my knees at his feet. I turned 
to leave. 

‘‘Wait, madam,” he said, writing on a 
card that he handed me. ‘‘Go to Mr. 
Perkins : this is his address. You may 
say that I sent you. He’ll subscribe. 
And this is Mr. Tomlinson’s address: 
he’ll subscribe. Good-morning.” 

I could have hugged the man, but I 
did not even say ‘‘Thank you.” Of 
course I was crying. 

Mr. Perkins’s number was near by, and 
I found the gentleman in his office. I 
had the tact to make Mr. Waddell’s name 
the first word in my petition : ‘^‘ I am so- 
liciting subscribers for Mr. Greeley’s his- 
tory of the rebellion.” I didn’t need to 
remember the ready-made arguments in 
the ‘‘ Instructions.” 

Mr. Perkins- said promptly, ‘‘Very 
well. I’ll give you my name which he 
did in a brisk, nervous way. ‘‘There! 
use it wherever you think it will be of 
advantage to you. I am pretty well 
known in the city, and I am glad to en- 
courage woman in any honest work, for 
there are very few avenues open to her, 
and those are crowded. This work is 
something that women can do, and I 
consider it a perfectly legitimate busi- 
ness ; but there are people who do not. 
You’ll meet with a great many rebuffs, 
more refusals than acceptances by a 
great many ; but put a hard face on and 
keep at work, and you’ll succeed.” Mr. 
Perkins liked to hear himself talk, and 
I also liked to hear him when he talked 
such words of cheer. 

Just at this point a tall, heavily-beard- 
ed man entered the office. “ Dennison,” 
said Mr. Perkins, ‘‘here’s a book you 
ought to have for your boy — Greeley’s 
history of the rebellion. Sit down here 
and write your name. It’s sold only by 
subscription.” 

Mr. Dennison gave me a hasty glance, 
sat down in the indicated seat and wrote 
his name. 

Each of these three orders was for a 
copy in half-calf binding, at fifteen dol- 
lars for the two volumes ; so that I had 
made eighteen dollars in half an hour, 
though the books, it is true, yet remain- 
ed to be delivered. I began to credit 


DESHLER <5r= DESHLER. 


the stories of three hundred dollars a 
month. My spirits were up among the 
hundreds. 

My next move brought me into a law- 
yer’s office, for I thought I would can- 
vass the building before going to Mr. 
Tomlinson, whose address the banker 
had given me. As I entered the law- 
yer’s office a youngish man sprang to 
his feet, bowed in a polite, winning way, 
and wheeling an easy-chair about said, 
“ Pray be seated, madam. The sight of 
a lady this dull, sultry morning is very 
refreshing.” 

I felt that he took me for a client. I 
dreaded to tell him my errand, and I 
ought to have known better than to do 
it. When I did, I can’t tell you how dis- 
gusted and injured he looked. 

My next interview was with a doctor, 
on whose office-door Vas the title of my 
story — ” Deshler & Deshler.” Both gen- 
tlemen were in. I addressed myself to 
one seated near the door. 

‘‘You haven’t a patient in me,” I said, 
wishing to avoid a repetition of the law- 
yer’s disappointment, and smiled as well 
as I could. 

‘‘What, then ?” asked the gentleman, 
returning my smile with one very cheery. 

‘‘Oh,” I answered, keeping up the 
play, ‘‘ I am one of those horrid creatures 
that are permitted on earth to teach peo- 
ple patience.” 

‘‘To what genus of the plagues do you 
belong ?” 

‘‘I’m a book-agent, and of course I 
have the very best book that ever came 
from the press.” 

‘‘To be sure you have,” he assented, 
‘‘but what’s the name of it ?” 

American Conflict." 

‘‘But it’s too early for a good history 
of the rebellion : in the year three thou- 
sand and one there may be a well-sifted, 
unbiased history of the war.” 

‘‘In which,” I added, emboldened and 
brightened by his good-nature, ‘‘ General 
Grant may be shown to have been a pure 
invention, and the identity of Abraham 
Lincoln with the founder of the Jewish 
nation be clearly demonstrated. But, 
unfortunately, you may not be living 
then to subscribe for that history.” 


37 - 

‘‘ Perhaps not, but you and I may talk 
it over in heaven.” 

‘‘ But you’ll never go to heaven if you 
don’t subscribe for this book.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe it’s worth subscribing 
for. Greeley couldn’t write an honest 
history: he’s a partisan.” 

‘‘ I’m sorry for the American who is 
not a partisan — who could maintain neu- 
trality in these momentous days,” I said 
warmly. Glancing toward the lower end 
of the room, I caught a look of approval 
in the eyes of the younger brother, for 
such I afterward found he was. 

‘‘But a partisan can’t write a history,” 
said the elder Deshler. 

‘‘All histories have been written by 
partisans,” I maintained. ‘‘Every his- 
torian draws his testimony from parti- 
sans: he but weighs it, and strikes the 
balance of probabilities. Mr. Greeley’s 
history contains a very careful analysis 
of the causes of the war. This makes 
the book valuable, let the history of the 
rebellion be what it may.” 

‘‘Mr. Greeley ought to be able to write 
well concerning the causes of the war : 
he had more to do with bringing it on . 
than any other man in America,” laugh- 
ed the doctor. 

‘‘That is very high praise,” I answer- 
ed, ‘‘and if it is true it entitles Mr. Gree- 
ley to the gratitude of us all. So I’ll 
make an appeal for the brave old editor. 
You see. I’m working for him as well ats 
for myself : he has a percentage on every 
sale I make. Subscribe for Mr. Greeley’s 
sake.” 

‘‘Well, Greeley is an object of charity, 
and I’ll subscribe for his history, but not 
this morning.” 

‘‘The sooner I get a good show of 
names the better for me and for Mr. 
Greeley. Your name will get me dozens 
of others among your patients,’’ I argued. 

‘‘ If it were a bottle of cough-medicine 
you were selling, my name might help 
a little.” 

‘‘You understand that you are not to 
pay for the books till delivered,” I ex- 
plained, thinking his delay might be a 
matter of money. ‘‘I wish influential 
names to begin with and I opened the 
subscription-book. 


38 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


"No, I shall not subscribe now,” he 
persisted. " Call here to-morrow morn- 
ing.” 

"Very well,” I answered, wondering 
what difference it could make to any 
mortal whether he wrote his name to- 
day or to-morrow. 

"Why do you wish to give the lady 
the trouble of coming again ?” asked the 
younger brother, glancing up from his 
book. 

"Well, I should like to hear how she’s 
getting along,” replied the elder gentle- 
man. 

I don’t know what kind of a look it 
was that came into the younger man’s 
face at this reply, and I don’t know 
whether it was meant for me or his 
brother. It was such a look as made me 
shrink from asking for his subscription, 
and I left the office. 

In the hall my eye caught the sign 
"Agents Wanted” on a neighboring 
door. I made a call in the room, feel- 
ing interested to investigate anything 
germane to my business. When I had 
proposed to the young man whom I 
found within to subscribe for Greeley’s 
history his interest seemed immediately 
engaged. He looked over the prospectus 
attentively, and asked me a multitude 
of questions about my experience in the 
business, my success, etc. Then he said, 
" I’ll tell you what : when you come to 
deliver the books to your subscribers, 
you’ll wish you’d never heard of Hor- 
ace Greeley. You’ll find it an awful job, 
the hardest work a Jady ever undertook. 
I’ve known ladies who had taken a large 
list of subscribers get so discouraged 
when they came to delivering the books 
that they’d sell out for a song, or maybe 
they’d throw the whole thing overboard. 
I’d advise you to give up the business at 
the start. Did you ever canvass for 
books issued in parts ? Well, it’s ten 
times easier than working with volumes. 
Now, I run subscription-books that are 
delivered in parts — one part a fortnight. 
And it’s no work at all to deliver them. 
A part doesn’t weigh piuch more than a 
sheet of music and he took down some 
"parts ” from a shelf in confirmation of 
his words. "And it’s easier to get sub- 


scriptions for a work in parts. Men are 
frightened at the thought of paying ten 
dollars in a lump for a book, but almost 
anybody can pay twenty-five cents a 
fortnight, and never miss it. Now, I 
can give you the agency for a history of 
the war that’s published in parts; and 
it’s a better history than Greeley’s.” 

He talked until I was persuaded to try 
canvassing for his history. So, equipped 
with "Part First,” I found myself again 
in the hall, and again I was attracted by 
a sign, "Agents Wanted.” I found this 
call was for picture-agents. 

"Hurrah!” said the picture-man when 
he saw "Part First” in my hand, "you 
don’t mean to say that you’ve gone into 
this business? You’ll find it the most 
tedious, picayunish work that was ever 
concocted. You can see yourself how 
it is. Suppose you always find your sub- 
scriber at home with the change ready, 
you’ve got to call on him twenty-four 
times to collect five or six dollars. But 
you’re more likely not to find him in, 
and so you may have to call thirty or 
forty times to make that collection. And 
it’s all nonsense about its being easy to 
deliver these parts. I’ve tried it. If you 
took along just one part at a time, it 
would do to talk. But to make the thing 
pay at all you’ve got to take two or three 
dozen parts when you start out, and that 
makes a big weight. You’ll get awful 
tired of the work, I tell you. Now,” 
continued the speaker, "the picture-busi- 
ness is the prettiest business for a lady in 
the world. You can start out with seven 
or .eight pictures, and deliver as you get 
subscribers, and the whole work is fin- 
ished at one stroke. And the profits are 
immense. Here’s a picture — ‘ Washing- 
ton’s Prayer at Valley Forge ’ — sells for 
two dollars and a half, and your com- 
mission is a dollar. Now, a man knows 
what he’s getting when he takes a pic- 
ture, but when he subscribes for a book 
he is buying in the dark : he’s got to 
take the agent’s word for everything; 
and people suspect every agent of being 
a swindler.” 

" I get the same commission on Gree- 
ley’s history.” 

"Yes, but you’ve got to take the ex- 


DESHLER 6- DESHLER. 


39 


pressage and the packing-boxes out of 
that ; and you’ve got to rent room some- 
where for receiving your books : they 
are very bulky. Then there comes in 
the work of delivering them ; so you’d 
be safer in calling your commission 
twenty per cent., instead of forty.” 

And so he argued his cause until I 
was again persuaded to change my work. 
My next call was on a real-estate agent. 
When I told him my business, showing 
him the engraving, he broke into a coarse 
laugh, and declared he wouldn’t give 
two dollars and fifty cents for all the pic- 
tures in the world unless he could sell 
them again. Then I asked him to sub- 
scribe for Greeley’s Conflict. He wouldn’t 
have the book as a gift — wouldn’t lumber 
up his house with books. I’d better go 
to selling real estate — could make lots 
more money than at books. Nobody 
wanted books except a few literary folks, 
and literary folks never had any money : 
they were always poor, wore other peo- 
ple’s old clothes, and were out at the el- 
bows at that. ” Now, real estate is some- 
thing that everybody knows about, and 
wants — rich and poor, the wise and the 
fools. I’ve got a hundred and odd lots 
out at Riverside, the finest suburb of this 
city. I’ll give you fifty dollars on every 
lot you sell.” He brought forth maps 
and diagrams and photographs, and 
showed me a beautiful city, with parks, 
boulevards, rustic bridges, fountains, 
churches, seminaries, hotels, etc. Then 
he told me of a young man who had 
made a hundred dollars a day working 
in Riverside real estate. ‘‘It’s no trick 
at all to sell two lots a day. Why, there 
was a young fellow came in here the 
other day — played out — told me he 
didn’t know where to get his dinner. I 
urged him to try real estate. Well, in 
one hour after leaving my office he came 
back with a woman to have a deed made 
for a Riverside lot he had sold her, and 
he actually paid for his dinner out of the 
fifty dollars commission he got on the 
sale.” 

Fifty dollars at a stroke was very daz- 
zling, and then, as the Riverside-man had 
said, one didn’t have to “lug” the lots 
round, as one must the books one sold. 


He filled my hands with descriptive cir- 
culars, maps, photographs, price-list, etc., 
and I left his room. 

I next found myself in the office of an 
insurance-agent, and offered to sell him 
a lot at Riverside. He smiled : I was 
encouraged. I showed him the maps 
and photographs and price list, and talk- 
ed about the boulevards, the groves, the 
parks, the bridges, the seminaries, the 
churches, the hotels. The more I talked 
the more he smiled. 

“You’re a good talker,” he said at 
length, ‘‘but do you know that this beau- 
tiful city of Riverside is under water — 
that there isn’t a house there except some 
shanties occupied by wharf-rats ? Riv- 
erside is a paper city, a swindle. Now, 
let me tell you something just in a busi- 
ness way. I don’t mean any flattery, 
you understand. You are one of the 
best talkers I ever met ; you are evident- 
ly a lady ; you are easy and graceful in 
your manners ; you are handsome — ex- 
cuse me, I am talking business ; there is 
an alternating brightness and pensive- 
ness in your face and manner very 
taking ; your, voice is music ; you’re a 
Southerner, I suspect; your manner is 
at once shy and brave ; there is an ap- 
peal in your plain black dress. Please 
don’t resent what I am saying : I am 
invoicing your stock in trade, and it’s 
tremendous. Your very weakness is 
strength : men will listen to you when 
they’d turn a man out of doors. So get 
hold of the right thing, and you’ll make 
about the best agent that ever I saw, and 
I’ve seen a great many in my life. Now, 
life insurance is a legitimate business, 
understood and admitted to be so by 
business-men the country over. Almost 
every man means to get his life insured 
some day, and needs only to be ap- 
proached in the right way to be secured. 
Now, just let me show you;” and he 
took out a pencil and drew a card to 
him. ‘‘ I pay you ten per cent, commis- 
sion. Say you get an insurance policy 
for fifty thousand dollars ; say the pre- 
mium on that is three thousand ; ten per 
cent, on that is three hundred dollars at 
one stroke. Then I give you five per 
cent, on renewals — and almost every man 


40 


DESHLER 6- DESHLER. 


renews — and you have one hundred and 
fifty dollars a year steady income as long 
as the policy is kept up. Now, you 
might get a fifty-thousand-dollar policy 
by a half hour’s talk. Suppose you get 
ten such policies a month — and you can 
do it — there you’ve got three thousand 
dollars in hand for your month’s work, 
and an income of fifteen hundred a year 
on renewals.” 

‘‘Oh, Baby! if we only could!” cried 
my heart. 

‘‘And even if you get only one such 
a month, at the year’s end you’re rich. 
Just try it. I’ll tell you how to work it.” 
He produced circulars, books, etc., and 
began a bewildering talk about average 
of life, non-forfeiting policies, premiums, 
dividends, endowment plans, stock com- 
pany, etc. 

‘‘I don’t understand it at all,” I said. 

‘‘But you will with a little study,” he 
assured me. ‘‘Just take these papers 
along and study them at your leisure ” — 
I filled my pockets and hands — ‘‘and be 
sure you come to see me again.” 

I left the office, and of course was de- 
cided to go into the life-insurance busi- 
ness. I followed it for about two hours, 
and insurance-agents will perhaps not 
be surprised to learn that I did not hook 
a fifty-thousand-dollar fish. At the end 
of that time I encountered a second in- 
surance-man, who clearly explained to 
me my want of success : I had under- 
taken to represent the most expensive, 
the most unreliable, the most unpopu- 
lar company in' the United States. He 
proved by figures — and figures can’t lie 
— that his company was at the head of 
insurance companies — that the insured 
saved twenty -five per cent., solicitors 
were sure of success, etc. etc. 

I heard the great court-house clock 
striking twelve. This was the dinner- 
hour at my boarding-house, and I was 
hungry : I had breakfasted at six. But 
my purse was empty. I decided to work 
on, because I knew not what else to do. 
Something might happen before tea-time. 
I went out into the street, and walked on 
till I came to a church. I had a feeling 
that I was off the track — that I ought 
to think over matters and get my mind 


settled. So I sat down on the church- 
steps, and I said to myself, ‘‘This morn- 
ing you were doing well : you made 
eighteen dollars in half an hour, but you 
allowed yourself to be frightened and 
coaxed into trying one thing and another 
until you were bewildered and lost your- 
self. Now, the first thing that you’ve 
got to do is to relieve present pressure. 
Perhaps there is more money in the in- 
surance business, but there is more wait- 
ing, and it’s more complicated. You 
don’t understand it: your brain is in a 
whirl now about it. To save your life, 
you don’t know the difference between 
a policy and a premium. Do you stick 
to Horace GrtQl&y's American Conflict 
— for the present at least, until you can 
find breathing-time.” And myself an- 
swered, ‘‘ I’ll do it.” 

Then I left my seat on the church- 
steps and went on, growing hungrier and 
fainter every moment ; and I felt sheep- 
ish’and guilty. It was not simply because 
I was hungry — that I had often been in 
my life — but that I was walking the street 
like any beggar, hungry and with no 
means of getting a dinner. I worked on 
from one door to another, entering every 
one on my way, finding myself ever and 
anon in some uncomfortable situation — 
in a barber’s shop or a billiard-room or 
a cigar-store, and once in a saloon. I 
was unused to a crowded city, and was 
not familiar with the characteristic shop- 
markings. ' In a carpet-store I caught a 
subscriber. 

After a while I stumbled into a restau- 
rant thronged with gentlemen. I was 
making a hasty retreat when I met Dr. 
Deshler, Sr., entering the eating-room. 

‘‘Why!” he said in a tone of surprise 
as he recognized me : then he added in- 
stantly, as if comprehending that I had 
missed my way, ‘‘This is the way you 
want to go.” He put my hand under 
his arm and led me through a side door, 
and before I was aware of his design 
we were seated at a private table in a 
ladies’ eating-room, and he was asking 
me what he should order. I was greatly 
confused, and I don’t know what I said, 
except that I couldn’t, and I tried to 
move back my chair. 


DESHLER 6- DESHLER. 


41 


“Sit still a moment,” he said. “You 
haven’t had your dinner, have you ?” 

“No,” I had to acknowledge. 

“You must be careful to take your 
meals regularly. We doctors know the 
ill effects of irregular eating. It’s nearly 
three o’clock. Where do you board ? — 
Why, that’s old Bennett’s !” he said when 
I had given him the number. “ My dear 
madam, my heart aches for you. That 
old skinflint will starve you to death. 
Nothing less than the stomach of an 
ostrich could digest the delicacies of his 
table. I had a patient there once, and I 
always had to take along something in 
my pocket for him to eat.” 

Again I tried to leave my seat, saying 
I must go. 

“One moment, madam,” he said: “it 
will save you considerable time, a tedious 
trip, a poor dinner, and, it may be, an 
attack of sickness, to dine here to-day ; 
and it will give me a great pleasure. 
We’ll take salt together, and then we 
shall be friends.” 

“ I’m greatly obliged to you, but — ^but 
— I am a stranger.” 

By this time I had left my seat. Dr. 
Deshler also rose, and accompanied me 
to the door, saying, “ Please let me order 
some trifle to refresh you. This morn- 
ing you looked fresh and bright: now 
you are absolutely haggard.” 

I stepped into the street and walked 
away without speaking, and of course I 
cried behind the veil I had drawn. I 
thought I had left the doctor in the res- 
taurant, but he was still at my side. 

“ If you will go to old Bennett’s, you 
must ride,” he said: “I will stop a car 
for you.” 

I wished Dr. Deshler in Jericho. How 
was I to pay my car-fare ? I tried to 
banish the tears from my voice as I said, 
“I don’t wish to ride.” 

But he heard the tears, as anybody but 
a deaf man would. “ My dear madam,” 
he said, “ pray forgive me. I do not wish 
to intrude, but you’re in trouble. What 
is the matter ? Perhaps I can help you. 
Pray tell me your trouble.” 

“You’re a stranger,” I managed to 
say. 

“That is true. If you have friends in 


the city, by all means take your trouble 
to them.” 

“I have no friends.” 

“Then tell me your trouble. Believe 
me, I will respect your confidence. Is it 
about money ?” 

The thought flashed upon me that I 
should have to tell somebody, so I said, 
“Yes.” 

“Here is my office,” he said: “come 
in, and perhaps we can contrive some- 
thing.” 

The younger brother was in the main 
office, so I was conducted to one of the 
consultation-rooms. 

“Now tell me all about it,” said my 
companion. 

“This is all there is about it,” I an- 
swered, trying to smile : “ I haven’t any 
money, not a single cent, and I’ve no 
business to live.” 

“And have you no friends to look to ?” 
he asked. 

“No.” 

“That is strange. You are a delicate, 
refined woman: it is very strange for 
such a one to be completely friendless. 
I don’t understand it. You must have 
had friends some time.” 

“Yes, I have had friends.” 

“Are they all dead ?” 

“No.” 

“Estranged ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You married against their wishes, 
perhaps.” 

“No,” I answered, resenting his ques- 
tions. 

He felt the resentment in my voice 
doubtless, 'for he said hastily, “I beg 
your pardon. I haven’t questioned you 
from idle curiosity, but I am interested, 
and I want to help you. How can I ? 
Can’t I do something more than offer 
you money ?” 

“ I will tell you how you can help me : 
you can subscribe for this book. Write 
your name now.” 

This he did, and then turned to me 
with “Well?” 

“ Please indicate the style of binding 
you wish,” I continued — cloth, sheep, 
half-calf, or Turkey morocco.” 

“Which will give you the best com- 


42 


DESHLER <2r» DESHLER. 


mission ?” he asked, not having noticed 
the printed prices. 

“The highest priced of course — the 
Turkey morocco. That’s expensive — 
ten dollars a volume, and there will be 
two volumes and I pointed to the 
publishers’ prices. 

“That’s the kind I wish,’’ he replied, 
making the entry. “What next?’’ he 
asked. 

“I have forty -per -cent, commission, 
so that I shall make eight dollars on 
your subscription, as you will see from 
these terms to agents;’’ and I showed 
him the circular. “If you choose, you 
may advance me five dollars on your 
subscription. You will know that I shall 
deliver the books, as it will be for my 
interest to secure the remaining three 
dollars.’’ 

He took out his purse and handed me 
eight dollars: “Let me at least do so 
much.’’ 

“Believe me, I appreciate your kind- 
ness,’’ I said. 

“And believe me, I appreciate the fa- 
vor you have done in allowing me to do 
this little thing.’’ 


“Now I’ll go and get my dinner,” I 
said between laughing and tears. 

“It is incredible !” and the doctor re- 
garded me with steadfast eyes. “ Won’t 
you come in here sometimes and let me 
know how you are doing?” 

“ Perhaps so : I should like to.” 

“And if you get into trouble, will you 
come to me before any one else?” he 
asked. 

“ It will be easier to come to you than 
to any one else,” I answered. 

“And you may fall sick — I’m afraid 
you will in this work : remember I am a 
doctor.” 

Well, I went into the street, cried of 
course, stopped a car and went to Mr. 
Bennett’s — paid my board for a week, 
and sat down to a dinner of stewed beef 
and rice pudding. My interview with 
Dr. Deshler was a grateful relief : I felt an 
outstretched hand. I worked that after- 
noon till six o’clock. I had all sorts of 
things said to me, kind and unkind. I 
cried at the kind things and at the un- 
kind. I did not get a single subscription. 

(end of part I.) 



1 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


43 


DESHLER & DESHLER; 

OR, MY LIFE AS A BOOK-AGENT. 
TWO PARTS.— II. 


A S soon as I had taken my tea I went 
out to work. This time I went up 
the street among the residences, think- 
ing that the shops and offices would be, 
in the main, deserted. But I found poor 
fishing: almost invariably I was told 
that the ladies were riding. The day 
had been intolerably warm, and every- 
body was out for a breath of fresh air. 
At last I found a lady who was not out 
riding. She was very pretty and very 
affable. She heard all I had to say about 
the book, looked at all the engravings, 
and asked numberless questions about 
this general and that engagement. Were 
all the pictures good likenesses of the 
generals, .or hadn’t I ever seen all the 
generals ? Didn’t I think this one per- 
fectly horrid-looking, and that one per- 
fectly splendid ? La ! was that the way a 
battle looked ? had I ever seen a battle ? 
and didn’t I think it must be perfectly 
splendid ? Did I have to work for a liv- 
ing ? Wasn’t it awful tiresome this warm 
weather? But of course I didn’t mind 
it, I was so used to it : it would just kill 
her, etc. She looked at the styles of 
binding — cloth, sheep, calf and Turkey 
morocco. “La!” she said, “I never 
knew before that they made leather out 
of turkey-hide.” Then she handed me 
back the subscription-book, with the re- 
mark that it must be a real nice history. 
Would’she subscribe for it ? I asked. 

“ Oh dear I no. I never read histories, 
they’re so awful stupid. It’s terrifically 
warm.” She yawned, rang a bell and 
ordered her fan and an ice. 

A second lady whom I found was 
more encouraging. She asked just as 
many questions, but they were not so 
irrelevant — said she wanted the history, 
and when I thought she had fully deter- 
mined to subscribe for it referred me to 
her husband, giving me his office ad- 
dress, and explaining that once she and 


her husband both bought the same pic- 
ture : if she should subscribe for the his- 
tory, he might do the same thing at his 
office. 

“ I have only five names on my list : 
you can see if your husband’s is there.” 
No, it wasn’t there. 

I supposed of course she was satisfied, 
and would enter her name. 

“ If I were to subscribe, he might not 
think to look at the list, and might put 
his name down too.” 

“ But you can tell him when he comes 
in this evening that you have ordered 
the book, and of course he will not.” 

“Oh, you might go to his office and 
get his name before he comes in : book- 
agents are up to all sorts of tricks.” 

“ I assure you, madam,” I said smiling, 
“I could never do such a thing. If by 
any possibility such a mistake should 
occur in any family, I should certainly 
release one subscriber.” 

“Everybody can promise. You’re a 
stranger to me, and the best way for you 
to do is to go to his office and let him 
sign for the book. Then, if it isn’t good, 
he’ll have nobody to blame but himself. 
Just take the car and go right down this 
street to No. 120, and you’ll be sure to 
catch him. There’s a car now.” 

I rushed out of the house to catch it. 
When I reached No. 120 I found the 
door locked and all the business streets 
deserted. I took the car back to Mr. 
Bennett’s boarding-house. I went up to 
my attic-room . It was directly under the 
roof, and was stifling. I went to bed, 
though it was not yet dark, and tossed 
there all night without five minutes’ sleep, 
as it seemed to me. I was up with the 
first gleam of the morning, unrefreshed 
and weary. I dressed and stole down 
stairs, for nobody was stirring. Unbolt- 
ing the front door, I sat down on the 
steps. The twilight and hush of the 


44 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


sleeping city were very impressive, and 
moved my spirit as its wild Babd never 
could. There came to me an intense 
realization of human weakness. Man 
can rear massive piles of masonry, he 
can make bold challenges and achieve 
splendid successes, but how soon is he 
wearied and worn ! For hours these im- 
posing streets which he has built pulsate 
with enterprise, passion and hope, the 
tide of life sweeps up in majestic strength, 
but God’s law is over all. As surely as 
the tide of life rises, so surely it must ebb 
and drop back in the ocean of rest, while 
above, through the ages, watches the Eye 
that never slumbers. 

This day proved one of considerable 
success. It was intensely warm, and the 
men kept to the shadow of their offices 
and shops, so that I had no trouble in 
securing interviews. “A woman who can 
work through this heat ought to be en- 
couraged,” was the sentiment expressed 
by more than one subscriber. On a cer- 
tain door I encountered ^ a dispiriting 
notice: “No insurance-agents or book- 
agents wanted here.” -I wondered if the 
poster of the card knew of something 
discreditable in the nature of the busi- 
ness of which I was ignorant. I might 
be forced to pursue a poor or shabby 
business — if, indeed, a woman can find 
any other — but I could never continue 
in any that was really wrong. I deter- 
mined, if possible, to find out the nature 
of the objection to book -agents enter- 
tained by that bill-poster. I found the 
gentleman in : he was a broker. 

“I am a book-agent,” I said, “and I 
wish to ask you, in all courtesy, the na- 
ture of your objection to my business.” 
He looked at me as if he wondered at 
me — my audacity or something else. “I 
am anxious to know, for I will not pursue 
any business that is intrinsically wrong. 
Will you tell me your objection ?” 

“It would be offensive to you.” 

“No, your objection must be to the 
business. You could have no objection 
to me if I came to contract for a thou- 
sand hogsheads of sugar. So pray tell 
me,” I urged. 

“Very well,” he said. “Book-agents 
are peddlers, and peddlers are cheats. 


Book -agents don’t show their wares: 
they ask a man to buy in the dark.” 

“We show samples of everything that’s 
to make up the book — printing, paper, 
engravings, bindings. When you sell 
coffee, what more do you show than a 
handful of berries ?” 

“But I warrant satisfaction to the 
buyer.” 

“And so does the publisher. In the 
obligation to which you subscribe it is 
stipulated that if the book does not prove 
as represented by the agent the sub- 
scriber is released from the obligation 
to take the book.” 

“Well, I don’t want to be told what 
books I ought to buy. When I want a 
book I’ll go to the book-store.” 

“If somebody didn’t tell you in one 
way or another, you’d never know what 
books to buy. In the first place, you 
wouldn’t know what was published, and 
of that which was published you wouldn’t 
know what was good. Book-triers are 
as necessary as tea-triers.” 

“Well, I hate a peddler. If you want 
to sell books, why don’t you open a 
book-store ?” 

“I haven’t the capital.” 

“Well, go at something else — some in- 
door work. By Jove ! I hate to see a 
woman pushing about among men for a 
living. By every woman there ought to 
stand a man.” 

“ But you can’t argue out of existence 
the women who have to push about 
among men for a living, neither can you 
talk men into places beside friendless 
women. Men don’t want such women 
for wives. They want the nestling whose 
feathers have never been ruffled, the but- 
terfly whose down is undisturbed.” 

“Well, I don’t want any.” 

“And,” I added, “there are a great 
many men who don’t want any, and 
numberless women who prefer not to 
marry ; so marriage is not, to every wo- 
man, the way out.” 

He went into the hall, and came back 
with the posted card which had attracted 
my attention, tore it in two and threw it 
into the waste-basket. “If all book- 
agents were like you. I’d put up a card 
inviting them to walk in,” he said ; and 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


then added, “ I suppose to you the way 
out lies through a big subscription-list.” 

” As far as I can at present see it does,” 
I answered. 

“Well, I’m bound to help you out. 
Hand over your subscription-book.” 

In my next call I failed utterly. The 
gentleman interviewed was a cool, quiet 
man who replied to everything I had to 
say, ” I shall not subscribe for the book.” 
He wouldn’t argue, he wouldn’t state his 
objections ; so I had no chance whatever. 
I commend his course to people wish- 
ing to get rid of book-agents and insu- 
rance-solicitors. 

In the next office I found a man mov- 
ing about in a petulant way, his face in 
a snarl. My impulse was to leave the 
room without making known my busi- 
ness, but he spoke before I had time to 
act : ” I suppose you’ve got a book there 
that you want me to subscribe for?” 

“Yes,” I answered — ‘‘Greeley’s His- 
tory of the Rebellion." 

‘‘ I wouldn’t subscribe for the angel 
Gabriel’s history of the rebellion in 
heaven, or Satan’s either,” he said. 

‘‘ Then you’d miss a good thing, doubt- 
less.” 

‘‘I’ve got enough to do to read up the 
history of my own affairs. Everything 
has gone wrong to-day. Just look at that 
inkstand !” 

It was on the carpet, broken to frag- 
ments and in a pool of ink, and the car- 
pet was a pretty Brussels. The man got 
down on his knees and was going at the 
ink with his pocket handkerchief. 

‘‘Let me manage it,” I said, arresting 
his operations. 

With blotting-paper, a basin of water 
and an old towel I soon had almost 
every trace of the accident removed. 

‘‘ I said I wouldn’t subscribe for your 
book, and I won’t,” the man said when 
I had washed my hands and was pre- 
paring to take my departure; ‘‘but I’ll 
tell you where you can get half a dozen 
subscribers.” He wrote a line to ‘‘Dear 
Walton,” gave me the address, and said, 
‘‘Good luck to you !” 

I went to ‘‘ dear Walton he was in 
a telegraph office. ‘‘Of course I’ll sub- 
scribe,” said ‘‘dear Walton.” ‘‘Any- 


45 

thing in the world to accommodate the 
ladies and Jim Wheeler !” 

Then he asked me to wait, and he’d 
telegraph to a friend in another part of 
the State : said friend had been high 
private in the army, and was sure to 
want ‘‘ a history of the war in which he 
had fought, bled and died.” Click, click, 
went the busy wires, ‘‘dear Walton” 
wearing a smile meanwhile that looked 
as if it might any moment explode into 
roaring laughter. In a few moments the 
answer to his despatch came back. 

‘‘Hurrah! he’ll subscribe!” and then 
the smile did explode into laughter, and 
the smile of a fellow-operator likewise 
exploded. ‘‘You’ll have to go to another 
part of the State to get the subscription,” 
said ‘‘ dear Walton.” ‘‘ There’s the high 
private, that handsome fellow with au- 
burn hair over there and he pointed 
to the other smiler across the room. 
‘‘Take him the subscription-book.” So 
I went over and secured the high pri- 
vate’s subscription, which had been so- 
licited by telegraph, the despatch having 
made a circuit of eight hundred miles to 
reach an operator in the same room. 
This incident put everybody in a good 
humor, and in a few minutes I had left 
the office with seven new names on my 
list. 

I had now orders for fifteen copies of 
the history. It was advisable that I 
should as soon as possible deliver the 
books. I hadn’t any money, I was a 
stranger to the publishers, yet I should 
'need over a hundred dollars in ordering 
the fifteen copies. I went to the office 
of Deshler & Deshler : it was all I could 
do. Both gentlemen were in : I wished 
the younger had not been. 

‘‘Dr. Deshler, it seems hard that I 
must come for help to a stranger, but 
you have made it as easy as possible for 
me. I must send to the publishers for 
books. I am a stranger to them : of 
course I must command some cash. I 
shall need over a hundred dollars. Now, 
may I, for just once, have the books ex- 
pressed to you ‘ C. O. D.,’ and delivered 
as you may direct, so that I can’t run 
away with them ? And will you lend 
me the hundred dollars for a few hours ? 


46 


DESHLER ^ DESHLER. 


for I can deliver the books and collect 
all the money in a half day, I think.” 

” Certainly ! certainly !” said Dr. Desh- 
ler cordially. “We’ll have the books 
delivered right here — there’s plenty of 
room — and we’ll save time by telegraph- 
ing the order.” 

He sat down at a table and wrote 
while I dictated. In due time the books 
arrived, and I entered zealously upon the 
work of delivering them. But not a 
single copy did I succeed in delivering 
at the first trial. I called at Mr. Perkins’s 
office four times before finding him in. 
And this is an illustration of how the 
matter went. It took more than a week 
of hard work to deliver those fifteen 
copies. Later, I learned how to manage 
better. But during this week I was run- 
ning in and out of Deshler & Deshler’s 
office, every hour growing more and 
more nervous and embarrassed about 
the way in which matters dragged, and 
more solicitous to escape from my an- 
noying position. 

I had expected to clear 'the office of 
the books in a few hours, and to reim- 
burse Dr. Deshler in the same time : in- 
stead, I had been using the office and 
the money for a week. In this flitting in 
and out I of course frequently met both 
the brothers — the younger oftener, for he 
was the office-physician : the older did 
the outside work. When I did find the 
elder brother, William Deshler, in the 
office, he made things very comfortable 
for me ; inquired in an interested way 
how I was getting along; urged me 
earnestly to rest ; cautioned me against 
overwork, etc. He would help me get 
out my books, and would “ load me up,” 
as he expressed it, following me to the 
door with words of sympathy and en- 
couragement. The work was too hard 
for me — I was delicate, and needed 
somebody to look after me, he would 
say. Dr. Deshler, Jr., never said a word 
about the hard work, and he never help- 
ed me about it. He would invariably 
turn his back and look out of the window 
when I was “ loading up ” and starting 
off. 

There were times when I felt very 
sharply that I was in some way a griev- 


ance to this gentleman ; yet occasionally 
he would open a conversation with me, 
and pursue it persistently and exhaust- 
ively, with evident enjoyment of some 
nature. I used to think it was the en- 
joyment of the explorer and discoverer, 
for I always came from one of these in- 
terviews with the consciousness that he 
had found out something about me. 
Try ever so hard, I couldn’t keep my- 
self hid. 

Well, the books were at length deliv- 
ered. I settled with Dr. Deshler, and 
had nearly fifty dollars in my purse. 
The first pinching necessity was met. I 
had scarcely found time before to think 
of Baby. Now my heart began to cry 
for her. My pretty bud was unfolding 
and I was not there to see it. She was 
developing so rapidly, I felt I could not 
be from her a day without missing some 
sweetness that could never come again. 
In maturity, years come between friends 
and they meet unaltered, but in a child 
each day brings some pretty change. 
The mother-yearning grew so intolerable 
that I conceived the design of bringing 
my baby to the city, though my judg- 
ment warned me that the country was 
safer for the summer. So, while I work- 
ed I was on the lookout for a boarding- 
place where my child could be cared for 
during my absence, and also for a place 
to store my books. 

Twenty-nine new names were on my 
list, but my purse was getting low, and 
it had become necessary that I should, 
as soon as possible, get on another sup- 
ply of books. It seemed that I should 
be forced again to ask help of Dr. Desh- 
ler. I hadn’t been in his office since I 
had moved out the last of my books, 
and I hadn’t seen either of the brothers 
since that time. Indeed, I had avoided 
their locality, lest I might seem to be 
seeking some favor of them. About this 
time I learned, through a servant at my 
boarding-house, that a gentleman had 
called and inquired if I was sick. The 
next morning I found myself sick — not 
alarmingly so, but there were some 
symptoms that gave me serious solici- 
tude. It had been an ever-present dread 
that I might fall sick in that great strange 


DESHLER 6" DESHLER. 


47 


city. I dressed myself, and after a fruit- 
less attempt to swallow some breakfast 
took a car to Dr. Deshler’s office. The 
younger brother, Gilbert Deshler, was in. 
He started up in a confused way at see- 
ing me, and shook hands with me. “You 
haven’t been here for nine days,” he said. 
“My brother has feared you were sick.” 

Then it was he who had called at my 
boarding-house, I thought. “lam sick 
now,” I answered, “and I have come to 
you to cure me.” 

“Ah!” and he looked at me in an 
earnest way, “tell me what the matter 
is.” I stated my symptoms. He in- 
quired about my sleeping-room and the 
boarding-house fare. “ Of course you’re 
sick with such living and with this con- 
founded work you’re at. I’ve seen you 
start out into the noon heat with six or 
eight of those great books, and I’ve wish- 
ed sometimes that you’d — you’d — Nev- 
er mind. Wait here, and I’ll step into 
a drug - store and get something for 
you.” 

He came back with a liquid mixture 
in a bottle, which he set on the table. I 
handed him a five-dollar bill: he pre- 
tended not to see it. I called his atten- 
tion to it. 

“ I don’t want any money,” he said. 

“I accept the prescription from you, 
Dr. Deshler,” I said, “and thank you, 
but not the medicine.” 

“Then you sha’n’t have it, that’s all.” 

“Well, if I die my blood will be on 
your head I” I returned, laughing. 

“You must think me a graceless fel- 
low if you can’t accept this trifling favor 
at my hands.” 

“I can and do accept it,” I answered, 
extending my hand for the medicine. 
“And now I want you to do me another 
favor. Do you know a Mr. Henchman 
at 79 Sycamore street ?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“ Because I’m negotiating for storing- 
room for my books in his office.” 

“You aren’t going there,” said the 
gentleman bluntly — “ that is,” he added 
quickly, “if you’ll take my advice.” 

“Why ?” 

“ Because I know the man to be a 
scamp : he’d steal your books if he 


could. Besides, it will be an unneces- 
sary expense for you. Why can’t you 
make this office your head-quarters ?” 

“ I and my books might be in the way 
of your patients.” 

“ We’ve two consultation-rooms besides 
this : a box of books couldn’t be in the 
way ; and as for you, you’re such an 
outrageous worker you’re never here but 
a minute at a time.” " 

“Your brother has not invited me to 
make this my head -quarters,” I sug- 
gested. 

“ He likes to have you here.” 

“ But you don’t.” 

“What makes you think so ?” he asked. 

The entrance of Dr. Deshler, Sr., pre- 
vented my reply. “ I’m delighted to see 
you,” he cried in a cheery way that was 
most comforting. “ I’ve thought several 
times of calling at Bennett’s to inquire 
about you, but I’ve been driven to death.” 

Then it wasn’t he who had called, after 
all. 

“Well, how are you getting along with 
the Confiictf How many subscribers 
have you caught ? Good I” he said when 
I had told him. “Oughtn’t you to be 
sending for more books ? Have them 
delivered right here, and I’ll pay for them 
just as before,” he added, so cordially 
that my last scruple disappeared. 

I escaped the threatened sickness, los- 
ing but that one day from my work. 

Dr. Gilbert Deshler called that even- 
ing to inquire about his patient, and or- 
dered me to change my room at what- 
ever cost. So I took one on the second 
floor, for which I was to pay twelve dol- 
lars a week. 

I was in the midst of delivering my 
second installment of books when I one 
day went into Deshler & Deshler’s, very 
tired. While resting I employed myself 
in writing a letter to Baby full of mother- 
talk: I was so afraid she would forget 
me. As I flnished the letter I looked 
up, and my eyes met Gilbert Deshler’s. 

“What made you think I didn’t like 
to have you here ?” he asked abruptly. 

“ Because you always turn your back 
on me when I come in for books.” 

“I hate to see you at this wretched 
work,” he said vehemently. “I can’t 


48 


DESHLER 6^ DESHLER. 


see an Irishwoman bowed under her bag 
of shavings without feeling ashamed of 
myself that I don’t take it on my own 
back.” 

‘‘ Do you expect me to credit all this 
chivalrous talk ?” I said laughing. “You 
sit there, and look out of the window, 
and smoke your cigar, without ever offer- 
ing to help me, as your brother does.” 

“ I can’t help you,” he answered. “ I 
could never stand and pile those great 
books in your arms, and see you go into 
the street for men to stare at and wonder 
at. If I started to help you I’d get a 
wheelbarrow and deliver the books for 
you; and when I had done that you 
wouldn’t be helped : your greatest need 
wouldn’t be met.” 

“And what is that greatest need ?” 

“Such shelter, such hedging, as pre- 
serves to woman the delicacy that is her 
supreme charm.” 

I felt my face flush. Did he think 
that I had lost or was losing this del- 
icacy? He seemed to understand the 
application I had made of his words, 
for he added hastily, “I do not say that 
it is impossible for a woman to preserve 
this delicacy in a public life that brings 
her into intercourse with strange coarse 
men, but I do say that it is thus en- 
dangered.” 

“And is it not as really imperiled in 
the kind of intercourse maintained be- 
tween men and women in fashionable 
life ? Think of the drawing-room flirt- 
ations, the dances, the familiarities of 
watering-places, the freedom and license 
that mark every kind of travel in this 
country! Publicity is not necessarily 
demoralizing to a woman, nor is a legiti- 
mate intercourse with strange rough men. 
Many a hospital-nurse is witness to this. 
A woman may meet in a business way 
the roughest men in this city and receive 
no harm. It is half-loves — if I may coin 
a word — familiarities without esteem, that 
break down womanly delicacy. How- 
ever, I am not quarreling with your 
words. No one can despise this scram- 
ble for money more than I, or more 
cordially hate a life that dispels the 
idealized atmosphere through which man 
should regard woman, and woman man. 


I thank God for the illusions of my ex- 
istence. I don’t want to know human 
nature. I never want the romance taken 
from my idea of man : I want to believe 
him a hero, a knight — strong, brave and 
noble.” 

“Yes, yes,” the gentleman answered, 
“ let’s keep all the halos. Now, I don’t be- 
lieve in educating girls and boys together : 
it does away with the glories. If these 
glories are moonshine, then moonshine 
is better than sunlight. If I’m enjoying 
a village landscape, I want to eat the fool 
alive who comes reminding me that the 
peaceful cemetery in the picture is over- 
grown with mayweed — that the cottages 
are squalid and the children ragged.” 

“One would scarcely take this for a 
physician’s talk. Doctors deal so much 
with the material, we scarcely expect to 
find the ideal in them,” I said. 

“ It is because I deal with the material 
and know its nothingness that I try to 
believe in the glory elsewhere. Man is 
happy in worship.” 

He had come up to the table where I 
was sitting, and where my letter was ly- 
ing ready for mailing, addressed, “Mrs. 
Caroline Shepherd. For my Baby.” 
I saw him glance at the letter inadvert- 
ently, as it were, then he looked with 
arrested interest, and raised his eyes to 
my face in a quick surprised way. He 
saw that I knew he had read the ad- 
dress. 

“ Have you a baby ?” and he regarded 
me with steadfast eyes. “ Then you’re a 
married woman ?” 

“What’s the matter?” said Dr. Desh- 
ler, Sr., entering the office. “Why, Gil, 
you look as though you’d been struck by 
lightning.” The gentleman appealed to 
looked flushed and confused. 

“ He’s surprised to hear that I have a 
baby, as if there could be any other rea- 
son why I am here at this work.” 

Deshler & Deshler were both looking 
at me now, as though they meant to 
look me through. 

“Is your husband dead?” asked the 
elder. 

“ He was killed in the war,” I answer- 
ed, coloring with alarm as they approach- 
ed the grave of my secret. 


DESHLER ^ EES//LER. 


49 


"Then you have a pension,” persisted 
the elder doctor. 

I was ready to sink through the floor, 
and I was conscious of showing the em- 
barrassment I felt. I did not reply. 

“You’re entitled to a pension,” the 
speaker continued. “Have you ever 
applied for one?” 

I had to answer him. “No,” I said. 

“Well, you must have a pension. I’ll 
take you right up to my lawyer’s now. 
Come along.” 

“No,” I answered evasively, “I must 
go to work now: there’s a subscriber 
near by that I want to catch.” 

“ Never mind the subscriber. I have 
leisure now to see my lawyer : he’s just 
overhead, and he’s in now. It won’t 
take but a few minutes for him to tell 
you what you’ll have to do.” 

“I can’t go now,” I said, growing mo- 
mently more embarrassed, and seizing 
my subscription-book I hurried from the 
office. Again I walked blindly along 
the street with the familiar hunted feel- 
ing. I wished that I needed never go 
back to Deshler & Deshler’s office, but I 
had two hundred dollars’ worth of books 
there. Perhaps that inquisitor might nev- 
er think of the pension-matter again, or 
at least might never mention it. 

But he did mention it again the follow- 
ing morning, and both the brothers were 
present. 

“Well, shall we go for the pension this 
morning?” is what he said. 

“I shall not apply for a pension, and 
I beg that you will not allude to the sub- 
ject again.” This was certainly not a 
speech to allay suspicion. I knew that 
both gentlemen were scanning my face, 
but I “loaded up ” and went away, won- 
dering what they were thinking and say- 
ing about me. “ It’s no matter what they 
think,” I decided. “I’ll work hard and 
make all the money I can here; then 
I’ll go away with Baby into a retreat 
whqre I shall not bother people nor be 
bothered by them.” 

After this talk about the pension with 
the brother-doctors, when my burning 
cheek, evasive manner and faltering 
tongue warned them away from the for- 
bidden ground, I perceived, even at our 
4 


next meeting, a change in the manner 
of the two gentlemen, and the change 
grew more evident as the days went by. 
The younger, who had ever been reticent 
with me, became still more reticent. He 
rarely looked at me, and more rarely 
spoke to me, though when he did it was 
gently. He never asked about my work, 
he never gave me a word of sympathy 
or encouragement. He seemed every day 
to be getting farther away from me. Dr. 
Deshler, Sr., on the contrary, drew near- 
er to me — each day drew nearer in spite 
of my effort to keep my distance. He 
inquired daily how I was getting along 
with my work, often looked over my 
subscription-list, telling me something 
about this man and warning me against 
that one. He frequently gave me a line 
to the head of some establishment that 
would lead, perhaps, to my securing ten 
or a dozen subscriptions. “ Which way 
are you going this morning ?” he would 
ask. “I’ve got a call off that way,” he 
would probably add, “and I can take 
you right along in my buggy, and any 
books that you wish to deliver;” and 
thus he often lightened my way. As the 
acquaintance progressed he became com- 
municative, telling me, at one time and 
another, considerable about himself and 
his brother. He acknowledged one day 
that he was a rich man — had always been 
rich : he practiced medicine because he 
liked an active life ; his practice was 
worth twelve thousand dollars a year ; 
his brother was a third partner ; meant 
to give him a full partnership in January, 
and make him work more. 

“Gil doesn’t take as well with people 
as I do, but he’s a better doctor. There’s 
no half-knowledge with him : he knows 
things to the very bottom. He’s the best 
anatomist I ever knew ; there’s a splendid 
surgeon in him ; he has just the prudence 
and the pluck that a surgeon needs. But 
people don’t know him, and they do 
know me, and so they run after me and 
let him sit in the office. But I mean to 
bring him out, and then I shall be laid 
on the shelf.” 

“That’s my house,” he said to me an- 
other day, as we passed a handsome resi- 
dence with all those attractive surround- 


50 


DESHLER DESHLER, 


ings that wealth ^nd culture can procure. 
“I keep bachelor’s hall there.” These 
last words quickened my heart -beat- 
ings. 

I had never known before whether or 
not he was married. ‘‘I’m looking for 
a housekeeper now : mine hasn’t a single 
home-instinct. What kind of a house- 
keeper are you ?” 

‘‘ I’m no housekeeper at all,” I answer- 
ed, coloring, though trying hard not to. 
‘‘ I can’t make bread, and bread-making 
stands at the head of the rudiments.” 

“Oh, the cook can make the bread. 
I mean, what kind of a home-maker are 
you ? There are some women who make 
a man’s home a rest, a very haven, while 
others, just as neat and orderly and provi- 
dent, render his house more fatiguing 
than the tumultuous street. Which kind 
are you ?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not very 
quiescent, and I like to talk. I don’t 
think I am very resting.” 

“ The resting woman is not necessari- 
ly quiescent or silent. A dumb woman 
would be very fatiguing. The resting 
woman says and looks appreciation : she 
is suggestive — a picturesque talker, per- 
haps. She is — Well, I can’t paint her 
portrait, but I recognize it whenever I see 
it. She isn’t necessarily very wise or 
very learned or very handsome, but she 
is very refreshing. I think you are a 
resting woman. I like to hear you talk : 
I like to watch your movements. A 
man could no more tire of you than of 
a live book. I think you could make a 
home.” He turned himself on the seat 
and looked in my face, and I looked in 
his. I don’t know what he saw in my 
eyes. I was conscious that they were 
telling something of what was in my 
heart, but 1 didn’t know then, and I don’t 
know now, just what was in my heart. 

“I am sure I don’t know,” I answered 
because I had to say something : “I nev- 
er tried to make a home.” 

“What do you mean by that speech?” 
he demanded a little sharply. “You 
made a home for some happy man, 
though you may not have had a roof 
over your head. Many a gypsy-tent has 
doubtless been a true home.” 


“ I must stop here,” I said, glad and 
sorry to leave him. 

This conversation was a bitter-sweet 
one to me : I wished it ended and want- 
ed it continued. The past, with its brief 
joy and long heartache, was growing 
.piore and more misty, and the shadows 
were gathering about the man to whom 
was linked the supreme happiness and 
the supreme anguish of that past life. I 
was beginning to live in the present, not 
alone in my work — this engaged me — ■ 
but something else was come into my 
life. The realities to me in. that teeming 
city were Deshler & Deshler. The scores 
of other people whom I encountered were 
so many automatons grinding out bread 
and weaving clothing for Baby and me. 
Deshler & Deshler, I have said, were 
the only realities. They were both in 
my thoughts ; and one was not pre-em- 
inent. Yes, one was pre-eminent, and 
it was the reticent, inscrutable, evasive 
younger brother. He shut himself from 
me, and this kept him in my thoughts. 
Once I had snatched a view of his spirit 
— had seen that it was knightly, and 
then the trail was lost to me. I own I 
was greatly bewildered by the attitudes 
of the two brothers in regard to me — 
both very pronounced and in marked 
contrast. I cannot convey in words what 
I felt those attitudes to be. Were I a 
painter I think I could sketch a picture 
that would exactly tell the story, for, all 
appearances to the contrary, I felt — 
But what is the use of trying ? I never 
can tell anybody what I felt. I never 
would have asked Gilbert Deshler to 
carry a book for me, but I knew that I 
could trust him to peril his life for mine, 
and that any other woman might so 
trust him. Yet I felt, more than ever, 
that I was a grievance to him. 

So things came to be very uncomfort- 
able and embarrassing for me at Desh- 
ler & Deshler’s. I could not go freely 
in and out when one brother was turn- 
ing his back on me, and the other seem- 
ed each day to be getting nearer. I can- 
not tell you how I knew this. Friend- 
ship, affection, love grow insensibly as a 
flower grows. Y ou do not see the change 
from day to day, but when you think 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


51 


back to the dry seed, and then turn to 
the swollen bud, you feel that soon there 
will be a blossom of some nature. I 
could not continue about that dear room, 
which had come to be a kind of home, 
a rest to me, after the words and looks 
I had received from William Deshler. 
Yet how I hated to go, to break the only 
tie I had in the great city! How my 
heart begged to stay ! 

One morning, however, when they 
were both in, I gathered courage and 
spoke : “I have engaged storing room 
for my books elsewhere.” My voice was 
very shaky, and a baby could have wrung 
tears out of it with the least little squeeze. 
I was ashamed and so vexed at the be- 
trayal of my feelings that I went on in a 
savage tone : ‘‘You gentleman have been 
very kind : I thank you.” Then I forgot 
to be fierce, and said, ‘‘ I can never for- 
get your — ” and then I broke down. 

The younger Deshler picked up his 
hat and went out of the office without a 
word. The elder brother came up to 
me with hands outstretched. I suppose 
I put mine in his : I found them there. 
I was feeling so utterly lonely, so ineffa- 
bly wretched, that I was ready to catch 
at a straw. His face was beaming, his 
eyes overflowing with passionate light. 
‘‘Oh, I love you!” he cried, kissing my 
hands. ‘‘Come and make my home.” 
He opened his arms. 

I sat down in a chair beside a desk : 
‘‘You don’t mean what you say : I am a 
stranger to you.” 

‘‘No,” he answered eagerly, drawing 
a chair beside mine. ‘‘ I know your sto- 
ry : I have guessed your secret. I hold 
you guiltless. You trampled on man’s 
laws, it is true, but the laws of a nature 
which God implanted in you are above 
man’s legislation, as the growth of the 
oak is above it. You are innocent, while 
I am guilty. You were a wife, though 
unbound by man’s laws : I am bound by 
man’s laws, yet I am no husband.” 

Now, Dr. Deshler, Sr., was no fool: 
he was a leading physician in a large 
city, yet those are the very words he 
spoke to me. In one of those flashes 
that come to women, and I suppose to 
men, I saw how it all was. I did not 


rise up in indignant scorn and say to 
Dr. Deshler that he had wronged and 
insulted me. He had put together some 
suspicious, inexplicable things in the life 
of a strange woman, had misconstrued 
them, and made erroneous deductions. 
That was all. 

I put my head down on the desk be- 
side me. I was so disappointed in him ! 
A friendship, or affection, or something 
— I know not precisely what the feeling 
was, but it was a warm and grateful in- 
terest in him — had received a blow. I 
grieved as for the dead. I lifted my 
head, but I could not look at him : I 
feared to find the face which had been 
generous and manly to me changed, 
with something ignoble in it. 

‘‘Dr. Deshler,” I said, ‘‘you have mis- 
interpreted the reserve and embarrass- 
ment with which I have received your 
inquiries in reference to my past life. 
You could not understand why I did not 
apply for a pension. I will tell you, 
painful as it may prove to me : My hus- 
band was in the rebel army, and was 
executed as a spy. That is all. I shall 
endeavor to forget everything but the 
many, many kindnesses you. have done 
me. God bless you !” 

Then I went out into the street, and 
walked on, block after block, going over 
this new unhappiness and relieving the 
old agony, my veil drawn to shut out the 
world, but too utterly wretched this time 
for tears. It was not simply my disap- 
pointment in William Deshler. Grievous 
as this was, I knew that something else 
had befallen me. 

I made my way back to my little room, 
and sat down on the carpet with my 
arms and face on the solitary wooden 
chair. Now, again, my little shallop was 
drifting in mid-ocean. Not a sail could 
I signal, be the storm ever so pitiless. 

This is how it all came about. Until 
seventeen years of age I had been rear- 
ed at the South, and life bad been so 
easy, so delicious, so dreamy, that I had 
never thought of slavery as a wrong. 
The relation of master and slave was as 
unquestioned, seemed as natural, as that 
of parent and child. I was sent to New 
England, where I spent two years at 


52 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


school. There I received my first sug- 
gestion of the sin in slavery. There I 
took my first lessons in life’s realities. 
There, indeed, I began to live : before I 
had been dreaming. I came to hate sla- 
very as the most abominable lie that man 
ever invented. I returned to the South 
in the midst of the war, and married a 
man to whom I had been three years 
promised. He was with the rebel sol- 
diers. I knew they were fighting for a 
lie : I pitied them as I pitied the blind, 
for I remembered .how ignorant I had 
once been, and how ignorant I should 
have remained but for those two years 
in New Haven. I married a rebel, for I 
loved the man, and I could not let poli- 
tics have anything to do with it. He 
believed so in his cause ! He gave his 
all and his wife’s all, even to his dear 
life, to prop a lie, and that made it so 
much the harder for me. The friends 
whom I had made in New England could 
never understand how if I hated slavery 
I could marry one who was fighting for 
it. They brought out in evidence against 
me the apologies I had made for my 
dear native land, and the words of love 
they had heard me speak for it when 
their denunciations would grow unbear- 
able. They decided that I was two- 
faced, and so I lost those friends. I 
found my Southern friends so blinded, 
so intoxicated with their zeal, so bitter, 
so unfair to the North, that I could not 
always maintain a prudent silence. I 
had to speak for the North sometimes : 
surely the very stones would have cried 
out if I had held my peace. Then I 
was taunted as traitor, abolitionist, spy ! 
When my husband met his untimely 
death he was exalted to martyrdom. 
Then more than ever unpardonable 
seemed my apostasy. And so I lost my 
Southern friends. I was crushed between 
the upper and nether millstones. We 
were all of us made penniless by the war. 
I remembered the busy, free North, where 
people dared to work. I ran the block- 
ade. To my surprise and joy, I found 
almost immediately a teacher’s place in 
a seminary, and I turned the key on my 
past life. But my secret was discovered 
and my place lost. 


And now again my place was lost. 
Once more I was nobody to all the world 
except Baby ; but, said my heart, I am 
all the world to her. My pretty bird ! 
my sweet darling! God helping me, I 
will serve you to the death 1 I can make 
money for us at this work : I have de- 
monstrated this. I have money in bank. 
We shall have comfort yet, my pretty 
one ! If I can make three thousand 
dollars by this year’s work, we can live 
on the interest, and perhaps I may find 
some womanly work that will not come 
between us, and which will add some- 
thing for a rainy day. 

“You must make three thousand dol- 
lars this year,’’ I said to myself. “You 
must let no day pass over your head 
without getting three subscriptions : that 
will give you twelve dollars a day, and 
a margin for the time to be taken out 
in delivering 'the books. You must lay 
aside all feeling, and, as Mr. Perkins ad- 
vised you, put on a hard face. You’ve 
got to stop crying. If people say hard 
things to you, remember that you will 
perhaps never meet them again in this 
world. You are never to be sick, and 
there are to be no rainy days in your 
life. But first you must get your baby.’’ 

I got up from the floor, washed my 
face with a will, brushed my hair neatly, 
put on my little black hat and veil, went 
down to the sitting-room and ran over 
the advertisements in the morning paper. 
I started straight out to answer one. And 
I was in luck. I found a place for Baby 
and myself together with a motherly 
widow-woman, who would undertake the 
care of Baby during the day. So I took 
the first train into the country to get her, 
and returned the same day in triumph 
with my treasure. It was a very humble 
house I had engaged. Our bed-room 
was small, but it was airy and neat : we 
ate at a little square table with a patched 
tablecloth. But how juicy and tender our 
little steaks were 1 how mealy the smok- 
ing potatoes ! how white and sweet the 
homemade bread! and what fragrant 
amber coffee was poured from that bright 
little tin' pot ! And oh what sweetness 
it was to wake with my darling’s sunny 
head on my bosom and her soft little 


DESHLER ^ DESHLER. 


53 


hands on my cheek ! She had learned 
to talk in the weeks she had been from 
me, and that made me cry because I had 
not been there to catch her first word. 

The next day I entered upon a line 
of such uncompromising work 'as few 
women have ever pursued. It was the 
middle of August, and the city was in- 
tolerably warm, for it was environed by 
hills. But I never stopped for the noon 
heat. I worked straight through it, eating 
my lunch in the street-car or on a pile 
of lumber or on church steps, wherever 
the dinner-hour might overtake me. I 
took my breakfast early, and went among 
the residences to catch the gentlemen 
before they could start for their offices 
and shops. And such expeditions sel- 
dom proved fruitless. I remember one 
morning a gentleman opening the front 
door, his eyes sleepy, his hair uncombed, 
in slippers, without coat or vest. He 
stood in the hall while I made known 
my business. I knew my ring had call- 
ed him out of bed, and I expected he 
would resent it. 

“You’re an early bird,’’ he said, “and 
you shall have your worm.’’ I handed 
him a pencil, and he wrote his name in 
the subscription-book. I had a copy of 
the history with me : I delivered it on 
the spot, and received the cash. I one 
morning made twelve dollars before sev- 
en o’clock. And I worked late into the 
night. The gentlemen sitting on their 
porches and doorsteps made a hearing 
certain. In spite of all resolutions not 
to care what people thought and said, I 
found it like crucifixion to walk up a 
flight of steps in the face of gentlemen 
and fine ladies fresh from their baths 
and toilets, and I so dusty and worn. 
Then would come a reminder of the days 
when I had sat on some cool verandah, in 
attire dainty and chaste and picturesque, 
and watched some poor creature climb 
the steps as I had now to do. I could 
remember how all such creatures, all 
who worked, had seemed — God forgive 
me ! — to belong to a race and a world 
with which I had nothing to do. How 
shadowy, how like a dream, all that now 
seemed ! 

After a few trials among the ladies I 


ceased trying to accomplish anything 
with them. It was seldom I could get 
an interview with one. They were lying 
down, or canning fruit, or pickling, or 
riding, or had a dressmaker or a sick 
headache. And when I did secure an 
interview, the lady was no judge of 
books, or she had no money, or she 
never encouraged peddlers, or she’d ask 
her husband. WomerT showed me little 
sympathy — nothing like what men man- 
ifested. I do not think it was because 
the women had l^ss kindliness or were 
of less sympathetic natures ; but the men 
knew what down-town life meant, knew 
what it was to be in the whirl of busi- 
ness, and they pitied the woman who 
was forced into it, as a soldier who knows 
the hardships of war would compassion- 
ate a woman in camp. The ladies were 
not unkind : they did not know. 

Well, I did not lose a single day from 
my work — nay, not a single hour. No 
weather was ever so unkind that I did 
not face it. I have been out in storms 
when the streets were deserted, not a 
woman to be seen for the day perhaps, 
while occasionally, at intervals of hours, 
I encountered a solitary man, who stared 
at me as if wondering what the emer- 
gency could be to bring out a woman in 
such a storm. Indeed, I learned to wel- 
come these stormy days as my harvest- 
seasons. The men kept to the shelter 
of their shops and offices, and I was sure 
to find them in, with leisure to give me 
a hearing, welcoming perhaps the diver- 
sion I created. One day, when there 
was a persistent soaking drizzle from 
dawn to bedtime, I obtained fourteen 
subscriptions and delivered eight copies 
of the history. My commission on that 
day’s work was over sixty dollars, thirty- 
eight of which I carried home in my 
purse. But I hadn’t a dry thread on me. 

“Yes, I’ll subscribe for the book be- 
cause' you’re so plucky;’’ “I’ll help you 
along if I never help another mortal 
while the world turns round ;’’ “ I’ll give 
you a lift if it bursts me,’’ — such were 
some of the things that were said to me. 

“ I’ve seen you pass our store about a 
thousand times,’’ said a young man in 
a wholesale establishment opposite the 


54 


DESHLER DESHLER. 


room where I stored my books, “and we 
boys have wondered and wondered what 
in the world you’re working so hard for.’’ 
Baby and I knew for what. 

And I went everywhere — to factories, 
and foundries, and mills, and lumber- 
yards, and pork-houses, and court-rooms, 
and dockyards. I have passed day after 
day without the sight of a woman’s face 
in all my work. Indeed, I think no oth- 
er woman’s foot had ever trod some of 
the places I visited. And yet through it 
all would ring the words Gilbert Deshler 
had said about sheltering and hedging a 
woman’s delicacy. I felt that the men 
who applauded my pluck and industry, 
and who called me brave, would have 
liked me better in a sheltered life — that 
while they said Bravo ! they held as out 
of place the woman who was pushing her 
way among men. But I kept on, push- 
ing as for my life, though I often walked 
the streets with eyes streaming behind 
my black veil, to be dried and cleared 
up as I turned on a venture into some 
strange door. I gave myself no quarter. 
Three subscriptions a day I pitilessly 
exacted. I seldom failed of four, and 
often ran up in the neighborhood of ten. 
It was very hard — too hard to be ever 
told — but I made money — for a woman, 
a great deal of money. I was in a work 
in which courage and industry won, and 
not sex. As September was approach- 
ing its close I found myself square with 
all the world, seven hundred and twenty 
dollars in the savings bank, and over 
two hundred dollars in books. At teach- 
ing it would have taken me about seven 
hundred and twenty years to lay up that 
amount. I was bound to make the three 
thousand by the year’s end, provided 
Baby and I could keep well. The fear 
of Baby’s falling ill while I was away 
from her was a ceaseless anxiety to me, 
for I was away all day, never going home 
to dinner. I knew Mrs. Allerton to be 
careful, but whose eyes can watch as a 
mother’s? In particular, I feared the 
croup, to which Baby had all her life 
seemed disposed. I became especially 
nervous as the damp, chill autumn ad- 
vanced. So I arranged that if she should 
ever be taken sick during my absence, a 


boy next door should bring word to the 
room where I was receiving my books, 
and where all my letters were addressed. 
This office, which I made my business 
head* quarters, was down town, and I 
went in and out there every day. 

October was now half gone, and I had 
not seen either of the Deshler brothers, 
or heard one word from them. Though 
I was so busy, I had moments of heart- 
ache and longing and dreaming. I had 
often a yearning to go by the office, and 
yet had my way led by it beyond escape, 
I know I should have hurried past it as 
by a haunted graveyard. There was one 
thing that gave me a start when Fheard 
it, and frequently recurred to my mind ; 
Mrs. Allerton showed me one day a let- 
ter advertised for me, but it was in a pa- 
per five weeks old. I had no correspond- 
ents except my publishers, and their let- 
ters were always delivered at my busi- 
ness-place. I inquired immediately at 
the post-office for the advertised letter, 
but of course did not get it. I thought 
often about this letter. I did not believe 
it was from my publishers, and nobody 
else that could have any interest in me 
knew I was in the city — nobody except 
the Deshlers. * 

Of course, from what I have said, you 
are prepared to hear that Baby did fall 
ill. One afternoon I went into my 
office for some books and found a note 
from Mrs. Allerton : “Baby seems very 
sick with something like croup. She 
ought to have a doctor. Let me know 
if I must send for one, or if you will 
bring one.’’ The boy was waiting to 
take back my answer. I sat down and 
wrote a line to Dr. Gilbert Deshler, and 
sent the boy off with it while I took a 
car home. 

I had scarcely got Baby in my arms 
before I knew that this was very different 
from any previous attack. She tried to 
say “Mamma,’’ but could only whisper 
it. Her face was flushed, her breathing 
hard, and she coughed in a tight, strug- 
gling way. I was greatly alarmed, and, 
feeling the need of immediate help, I 
had just asked Mrs. Allerton to run for 
some physician in the neighborhood when 
a carriage stopped at the door and there 


DESHLER 6- DESHLER. 


55 


were swift steps on the stairs. Mrs. Al- 
lerton’s rooms were on the second floor. 
I laid Baby on the bed, opened the door 
into the hall, and my eyes met Gilbert 
Deshler’s. 

“My baby!” I said: “you must not 
let her die.” 

He walked immediately to the bed, 
felt her pulse and put his ear down to 
hear her breathing. He did not show 
any anxiety in his face when he lifted it, 
neither did he speak any alarming words. 
He didn’t say anything, but his silence 
was sufficiently alarming, for I felt that 
he would have said something reassuring 
if he could. I knew too, by the prompt, 
decided way in which he worked, that 
there was danger. And I worked with 
him as only a mother can whose love is 
the strongest thing about her. 

When the doctor had applied his rem- 
edies, and I was dreading to see him 
leave, he sat down by the bed. “ I will 
watch the child to-night,” he said. 

Shall I confess it? I wanted to put 
my arms about his neck: I longed to 
kiss the hand interposed to avert from 
me this threatened woe. So he and I 
watched together through the silent hours 
— I with a restful, grateful feeling that, 
poor and alone as I was in the world, I 
was to have all the help of science and 
skill which riches and friends could bring 
to any woman. There was supreme com- 
fort in the thought, yet I never forgot 
that the contest was very unequal — Man 
against impassive Nature. 

It was about two o’clock in the morn- 
ing when I knew, from the way the doc- 
tor fought, that Baby was worse. I was 
hanging over her, aching with every 
breath she drew, and trembling with 
each lest she might never be able to 
draw another. I lifted her, thinking if 
she must die she shbuld die in my arms. 
I sat down on a low chair, feeling that 
if she went I could not stay. Suddenly 
she threw up her little hands in a way 
that yet haunts my dreams. I thought 
I must die with the anguish in my dar- 
ling’s face: “Oh, doctor! help!” 

He was kneeling beside us: “Keep 
quiet ! don’t be alarmed ! Don’t touch 
me,” he answered in firm, calm tones. 


I saw the gleam of a knife, and the 
next moment it was crimsoned with her 
blood. I don’t know how I kept on 
living, I was so frightened, but Baby 
was immediately relieved. The doctor 
quietly wiped away the blood, adjusted 
a silver tube, watched till breakfast-time, 
and then went away. But he came again 
that morning, and again at six o’clock. 

Of course Baby got well, though she 
was full two weeks about it. And how 
shall I ever tell about all the bliss that 
was crowded into those two weeks as we 
were coaxing back the bloom to her 
cheek and the radiance to her eyes ? It 
was such happiness to tend Baby; to 
watch for Gilbert Deshler’s coming ; to 
see her go into his arms ; to watch him 
lay her in his bosom and caress her with 
womanly tenderness ; to hear his strong 
words with an undertone that puzzled 
and thrilled ; to look into his eyes, that 
always made mine waver ! Ah ! it was 
all so sweet that I dreaded the day when 
the witchery must be broken. I almost 
trembled to see Baby getting well so fast. 
It seemed to me that I could never go 
back to my life of drudgery and toil : 
the burden seemed too heavy for me 
ever again to take it up. I didn’t argue 
against the imprudence of giving my 
soul this feast. What if it must some 
day starve ? Let it now, at least, take 
its fill of joy. 

We hadn’t much chance for private 
conversation during the doctor’s visits, 
for Mrs. Allerton was generally running 
in and out. But he told me one day 
that he had written to me soon after I 
left Deshler & Deshler’s, and that the 
letter came back to him from the Dead- 
letter Office, and he thought then that 
he had lost me. 

“What was the letter about ?” I a-sked. 

“Oh, I wrote because I was conscience- 
stricken. I had been such a bear to you, 
and you our guest! I had just heard 
your story from my brother. I would 
have given a great deal then if I could 
have gone down on my knees to you, 
and I am bound yet to confess it — the 
infernal interpretation I had put upon 
things. You know the matter about the 
pension ; and then there was this blessed 


56 


DESHLER &• DESHLER. 


baby, and everything had such a strange 
look, so suspicious, that — Oh, perdi- 
tion ! I can’t tell you what.” 

“You need not tell me — I know: I 
gathered it from your brother. The cir- 
cumstances warranted all your suspi- 
cions. I was a stranger — there was no 
life-record, as with an acquaintance, that 
you were bound to respect. You were 
not to blame : I was simply unfortunate.” 

“ I was bound to respect my intuitions 
and the magnetism of spirit and spirit.” 

Another day he told me that his bro- 
ther was married — that his wife was a 
good woman and a handsome woman. 
“But they couldn’t adjust themselves to 
each other, and they separated by mu- 
tual consent.” 

The dreaded day at length came. Dr. 
Deshler pronounced Baby entirely cured. 
I knew this already. There was not the 
shadow of an excuse for his coming 
again and for my shirking my drudgery. 
Yet I heard the doctor’s decision with a 
stifled heart. This delicious intercourse 
must end. He kissed Baby good-bye. 
If he had been starting for Kamtchatka, 
I couldn’t have felt more like death. 

He shook hands with me. “I’m glad 
I’ve found you,” he said. “Promise me 
that you won’t go away without letting 
me know. I shall want you to settle 
my bill as soon as you think you can 
meet it.” 

This was a very strange, coarse speech, 
that came to me like a stab. 

“I can pay it at any moment,” I said 
hotly, throwing a haughty look at his 
impassive face. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I shall 
demand a large fee.”' 

“ What is your bill ?” I asked. “ I will 
give you an order on the bank where I 
make my deposits.” 

I was conscious of having made a 
sounding speech, yet I trembled for my 
few hundreds that I had worked so hard 
for : the whole might go at one sweep. 


He had performed a surgical operation, 
and I knew that city surgeons made 
large charges. 

“But I’ll pay his bill if I have to work 
all the rest of my life for it,” I thought. 

He sat down beside me, took out his 
pocket memorandum-book and a pen- 
cil : “ Let me see : there’s the operation 
and twenty-six visits. Well, you must 
give me that blessed baby : I saved her 
life, and I ought to have her. Then I 
shall want you to take care of her ; so 
you must give me yourself. And you 
will : I’ve read my happiness in your 
sweet eyes — the sweetest eyes man ever 
kissed.” 

He had us both in his arms. Baby and 
me, kissing by turns her bright head and 
my lips and eyes. Baby crowed and 
cooed, and I — of course I cried. 

“You bad doctor,” I said when I could 
speak, “to scare me so !• I thought you 
were going to take all my money and 
Baby’s. Of course Baby’s life is worth it 
a thousand times, and I could have paid 
it to anybody else and not been hurt, 
but it would have, killed me to feel that 
you could be willing to spend it for your 
comfort. That money, somehow, seems 
to have my tears and my heart’s blood 
in it.” 

“ Poor little woman ! And what are 
you ever going to do with it ? There’s 
no use good enough for it,” said the 
doctor. 

“Yes, I know a use for it. I mean to 
keep it on interest as a book-agents’ 
fund,” I said laughing. “ I shall sub- 
scribe for every book that is brought 
along, if it’s a good book : if not. I’ll 
give the agent his forty per cent. There 
now ! You see I know how one suffers.” 

“All book-agents are not like you. I 
saw the glories about you that first day 
you came into our office, and the halo is 
yet here.” 

He smoothed my hair and kissed it 
softly. 



WHEN I WAS A BOARDER. 


57 


WHEN I WAS A BOARDER. 


T BOARDED with Miss Burritt. She 
-L was a cousin or niece or relative of 
some sort of the Learned Blacksmith. 
She had a mission, or conceived that 
she had. It was to introduce people to 
one another, and no incongruity of time, 
place or circumstance ever discouraged 
her or damped her missionary zeal. 
Evei7bod^ that came into her house was 
sure to be presented to everybody else 
in it. During the seven months that I 
was a boarder I think Miss Burritt cer- 
tainly introduced me to representatives 
of every State in the Union, of every 
rank in society, and of every sect in 
Christendom, the Mormon not excepted. 
Miss Burritt’s house, you must under- 
stand, was conveniently situated in ref- 
erence to the great union depot, and 
also to the business portion of the city, 
and many varieties of people floated 
into it, although it was not hotel-like in 
its proportions or appointments. The 
Down-easter from the banks of the Pe- 
nobscot going to settle in Florida, and 
“stopping off” for a suit of summer 
clothes perhaps, and an Oregon con- 
sumptive returning from a winter in 
Florida, and stopping to have a prescrip- 
tion renewed, intersected each other’s 
paths at Miss Burritt’s, and were pre- 
sented to each other with the conscien- 
tious painstaking that an inveterate 
matchmaker manifests in bringing two 
victims together. 

One evening I was at the tea-table, as 
were most of the regular boarders, when 
I saw Miss Burritt in the adjoining sitting- 
room take the arm of an elderly woman 
in a brown merino dress trimmed with 
the inevitable black velvet. This per- 
sonage, as I afterward learned, was stop- 
ping off for a night’s rest, and was to 
leave by the five A. m. train. They 
marched, arm in arm, into the dining- 
room : I knew what was impending. At 
the head of the table Miss Burritt halted 
her companion: “Mrs. Springer, Mrs. 
Weaver, Miss Batchelder, Dr. Skinner, 


Rev. Mr. Ashley, Mrs. Ashley, Miss 
Ashley, Mr. Arthur Ashley, Mr. Alex- 
ander,’’ etc. etc^ ; and Mrs. Springer, 
whom none of us then presented will 
ever see, or ever wish to see again, this 
side of heaven, went bobbing her wigged 
head to some three dozen strange people, 
until pretty little giggling Miss Dayton 
hummed to me in a whisper, ‘“We’re 
all a -nodding, nid, nid, nodding.’ If 
Miss Burritt were keeper of a railroad 
dining-room, I believe she would be wor- 
ried into insanity because she couldn’t 
introduce everybody to everybody else. 
Oh, there’s Mr. Abernethy !’’ she ex- 
claimed. “ Do watch him !’’ 

Mr. Abernethy, a pale, student-like, 
abstracted young man, was just enter- 
ing the dining-room. You would have 
conjectured that he was calculating a 
solar eclipse. He had made about half 
the distance across the room to his seat, 
which was beside Miss Dayton, when 
Miss Burritt from the head of the table 
fired a pistol-shot after him : “ Mr. Aber- 
nethy, Mrs. Springer.’’ 

Mr. Abernethy halted in the middle 
of the room ; he glanced at me in a start- 
led way ; he stared at Miss Dayton ; he 
turned and looked along the length of 
the table on the right. 

“Right face!’’ said Miss Dayton with 
an audible laugh. 

Then Mr. Abernethy described an- 
other quadrant (“About face!’’ interpo- 
lated Miss Dayton) toward Miss Burritt, 
who was standing, having risen to per- 
form the ceremony of introducing the 
gentleman to Mrs. Springer. Mr. Ab- 
ernethy bowed impressively to her, his 
hostess for two months, calling her Miss 
Springer, notwithstanding the fact that 
Mrs. Springer was keeping up an un- 
flagging nodding. Everybody laughed, 
I not excepted, though I felt a pity for 
the target. 

“ Did anybody ever see such an idiot ?’’ 
said Miss Dayton with an ill-suppressed 
titter. 


WHEN I WAS A BOARDER. 


58 


“ Mr. Abernethy is no idiot,” I replied 
warmly : “he knows more than any man 
I ever talked with.” / 

“ He doesn’t know an earthly thing out 
of books,” asserted Miss Dayton. " He 
hasn’t a grain of out-door sense. Miss 
Burritt says he always strips the towel 
off the washstand to wipe with, and 
leaves the others hanging on the rack, 
and that when he goes to bed he never 
takes off the hypocrites, as I call them 
— those things, you know, that folks put 
over pillows to hide the dirty cases. I 
don’t believe he’d know what to eat if I 
didn’t sit here and pass things to him. I 
actually think he doesn’t know the taste 
of a thing he eats. He is the queerest 
mortal !” 

“ Hush !” I said anxiously, for Mr. 
Abernethy was taking his seat by her 
side. 

“ He doesn’t know a thing we’re say- 
ing,” she declared. “We might talk 
about him till midnight and he’d never 
hear a word.” 

“ Please stop !” I whispered nervously. 

“Well, to oblige you I will, but your 
anxieties are quite unnecessary.” 

“ Mr. Abernethy,” shouted a servant, 
“ have tea or coffee ?” 

The student was sensitive to the sound 
of his name. It acted like a pinch on 
the arm to arouse his attention. The 
servants had discovered this. “Have 
tea or coffee ?” repeated the servant. 

“Coffee,” he answered. 

“ Don’t you mean tea, Mr. Abernethy ?” 
Miss Dayton asked. “You told me you 
never drank coffee.” 

“ I don’t : yes, yes, I mean tea.” He 
helped himself to a hot biscuit. 

“Mr. Abernethy, here’s bread,” Miss 
Dayton said, setting it before him. 

“Yes, thank you — I prefer the bread.” 

“ Hand Mr. Abernethy the butter, and 
bring him a plate of apple-sauce,” Miss 
Dayton said to a servant, as though she 
were caring for a child. “I’ve got him 
fixed now,” she continued, turning to 
me and proceeding to sweeten her tea. 

Across the table from us sat Mr. Dim- 
ick, a rotund, ruddy man, who always 
emitted odors of the barber-shop. Though 
inclined to baldness, he had a heavy 


moustache, which he twirled incessantly 
when his hands were at leisure for twirl- 

ing. 

“Mr. Abernethy,” said Mr. Dimick 
(before the speaker continued he admin- 
istered a vigorous bite to his bread, which, 
by the way, had the buttered side turned 
down out of the way of his moustache), 
“ what do you think of this Paraguayan 
war?” The boarders went to Mr. Ab- 
ernethy, not for companionship, but for 
information, as to a dictionary or ency- 
clopaedia. 

“Your question is very general,” re- 
plied the gentleman appealed to, laying 
down his knife and fork. 

“Of course, but what do you think 
will be the upshot of the matter ? That’s 
what I mean.” 

“ I think it will end in the extermina- 
tion of the Paraguayan people.” 

“That’s just what I think; but what 
in the world are they fighting about ? I 
can’t make head or tail of the thing.” 

“ To find the head of this quarrel one 
must go back to within a -year of the 
discovery of America, when a papal bull 
of Alexander VI. divided the New World 
between the crowns of Spain and Portu- 
gal. The question of the boundary-line 
between their respective territories has 
never been permanently closed.” 

“Now, he’ll forget to eat his supper,” 
said Miss Dayton quite audibly. She 
treated Mr. Abernethy as a sleeper who 
could neither see nor hear till she had 
shaken him up. 

“ The proximate cause of the war be- 
tween Paraguay and the allies,” con- 
tinued Mr. Abernethy, “ is undoubtedly 
the ambition of Lopez to make Paraguay 
a great military power, with a view to 
the ultimate enlargement of her bound- 
aries.” 

“Just my opinion,” said Mr. Dimick. 

“The events that occurred in 1864 in 
Uruguay, as you remember” (Mr. Dim- 
ick, quickly recovering from a yawn, in- 
timated by repeated nods that he did re- 
member : I was sure he didn’t), “ furnish- 
ed him with the ostensible pretext for 
entering upon his long-cherished plan.” 

“Miss Dayton, are you going to the 
opera this evening ?” asked Mr. Dimick, 


IVI/£N I WAS A BOARDER. 


evidently bored by this talk about history 
which he had provoked. 

Mr. Abernethy prosecuted his subject, 
turning to me, though entirely uncon- 
scious, I was satisfied, that there had 
been any shifting in his audience. Miss 
Dayton was sitting back in her chair, 
and I was leaning forward greatly inter- 
ested. The speaker’s eyes were fixed on 
my face, but he saw it only as one sees 
the words he reads, heeding them not, 
but grasping the idea beyond, or as the 
musician touches the keys of his instru- 
ment, but is conscious of the music 
alone. His thoughts played about his 
hearer as the waves about a rock. I had 
talked much with him, for on every sub- 
ject he could offer something new, at 
least to me, and yet I doubted not he 
would pass me unrecognized in the 
street. The thought of this, I acknow- 
ledge, piqued me at times, for I was 
rather good-looking, a fluent talker, and 
used to making impressions on gentle- 
men — not very profound perhaps/> but 
veritable impressions. 

“Mr. Abernethy,’’ said Belle Dayton, 
breaking in on his discussion of the 
Paraguayan question, “do you know 
Mrs. Springer?’’ 

Mr. Abernethy looked hopelessly be- 
wildered. “ Mrs, Springer ? Mrs. Spring- 
er?’’ he repeated, like one in a dream. 

“Yes, Mrs. Springer. You were in- 
troduced to her when you first came 
into the dining-room. I want you, if 
you please, to tell me which one of the 
ladies is Mrs. Springer. She’s a new- 
comer.’’ 

“ I ought to know her,’’ he said, like a 
child trying to recall his lesson. He ran 
his eye up and down the length of the 
table. “I think Mrs. Springer is that 
lady in the blue dress at the end of the 
table,’’ he said at length. 

“Now, Mr. Abernethy,’’ responded 
Miss Dayton, her eyes brimming with 
archness, “ I know you are making be- 
lieve now. You know that pretty girl 
in blue is Miss Batchelder. You’ve seen 
her every day since you’ve been here, 
and I’ve been thinking for the last two 
weeks that you’re in love with her — you 
look at her as though you were— and 


59 

now you pptend to think she’s a new- 
comer!’’ 

Mr. Abernethy looked at Miss Dayton. 
It was the first time I had ever seen him 
really look at any one. He seemed 
amused. “I am a graceless fellow,’’ he 
said with a smile. “ I ought to be a her- 
mit or a monk.’’ 

“Yes, I think you ought,’’ assented the 
merciless Miss Dayton. 

We soon after left the table. In the 
adjoining sitting-room, Mr. Abernethy 
paused at a what-not to examine some 
shells which had been placed there that 
morning. 

“What makes the holes in those 
shells ?’’ Belle asked, advancing to his 
side. He held in his hand a large 
Achatina, 

“These holes?’’ he said. “Oh, the 
natives of Africa fill these with honey, 
string them about their necks, and bring 
them across the country to the sea-ports, 
where they are exchanged for salt or 
other articles of traffic.’’ 

“ Is that it ?’’ said Miss Dayton. “Well, 
now, when I was at school I asked my 
teacher, and he said those were bullet- 
holes, where the hunters had shot the 
animals ; and to think I was goose 
enough to believe him ! though I always 
knew he was a humbug, pretending to 
know everything. But this kind,’’ she 
continued, taking up a sea-shell, “is so 
small I shouldn’t think it would pay to 
transport honey in them.’’ 

“These holes are of a different nature,’’ 
answered Mr. Abernethy: “they are 
bored by the teredo. It often bores holes 
in the bottoms of vessels at anchor.’’ 

“ How curious ! How in the world did 
you ever learn so much, Mr. Abernethy ? 
What kind of animal lives in this ?’’ she 
continued, without waiting for the gentle- 
man to inform her how in the world he 
had learned so much. 

“If you should see the animal alive 
on the sea-shore you would scarcely rec- 
ognize it from this shell. It looks like 
a lump of fat, but when opened this 
beautiffil polished shell is found. In all 
cases of shells with a high natural pol- 
ish, the animal mantles the shell, se- 
creting it.’’ 


6o 


WIl£JV I WAS A BOARDER. 


Then he proceeded to discuss other 
shells. I wanted to go over and hear 
him, but I was buttonholed in an oppo- 
site corner by Miss Burritt, who was en- 
tertaining Mrs. Springer and me with a 
dissertation on the troublesome charac- 
ter of lady boarders. 

“ I never mean to take another into 
my house,” she said : ‘‘they are ten times 
the bother that gentlemen are. Of course 
I don’t mean come-and-go boarders like 
you, Mrs. Springer, and I don’t mean 
them that are like you. Miss Tiffaine,” 
she added, turning to me. ‘‘You are no 
more trouble than the gentlemen board- 
ers. You just take your meals and go 
off to your telegraphing, and are out of 
the way just like the men.” 

‘‘ Bless my soul ! can she work a tele- 
graph ?” asked Mrs. Springer, looking 
at me in admiration. 

‘‘Yes, indeed she can,” answered Miss 
Burritt, as if she was proud of her board- 
er. “ If all my lady-boarders were like 
Miss^ Tiffaine, I’d just as lief have them 
as gentlemen, and a good deal liever, 
for I’m fonder of my own sex than of the 
opposite sex. But the ladies ain’t all 
like Miss Tiffaine. They are always 
wanting hot water to wash their laces, or 
something or other. Then they are al- 
ways making over dresses and cloaks 
and things, and they must have flat- 
irons to press them out. They are all 
the time tinkering at something, doctor- 
ing themselves or their children. They 
take off the dishes and pails and spoons 
and tumblers and everything : then when 
we come to set the table we’ve got to 
race all over the establishment. Now, 
to-day Norah searched the kitchen and 
dining-room and pantries high and low 
for the quart measure, and find it she 
couldn’t anywhere. And she was mak- 
ing a pudding, too, for dinner, so she just 
had to guess at the quantity of flour.” 

‘‘Jist so,” said Mrs. Springer. 

‘‘And the consequence was, that the 
pudding was heavy and soggy.” Miss 
Burritt’s puddings were apt to be heavy 
and soggy. 

‘‘Of course,” assented Mrs. Springer. 
‘‘But I’ll tell you what you might ha’ 
done, Miss Burritt: that’s your name, 


ain’t it ? You might ha’ measured your 
flour in the pint measure. I often do 
that way ; but then you must take two 
of the pint to one of the quart. For in- 
stance, if it’s two quarts, you must take 
four pints, and if it’s three quarts, you 
must take six pints ; and the puddin’ll 
come out just as good.” 

‘‘Of course,” said Miss Burritt, ‘‘but 
my pint measure was at the bottom of 
the flour barrel : they’d emptied a sack 
of flour on it, and there it was, you 
see. Well, I didn’t finish my story. I 
was going round putting clean towels in 
the rooms — for I put a clean towel in 
every room of this house every day of 
my life — and there, in Miss Dayton’s 
room, large as life, was the missing 
quart measure !” 

‘‘Well done!” said Mrs. Springer. 

‘‘ Miss Dayton is the most troublesome 
boarder in the house,” said Miss Burritt. 

‘‘ I mean to tell her next month that I 
can’t board her.” 

I was rather startled to find that I felt - 
a slight satisfaction at this announce- 
ment, and yet Miss Dayton and I were 
on quite friendly terms. 

‘‘ Carrying off the quart cup and spoil- 
ing the dinner ! Nobody could stand it.” 

“That they couldn’t!” assented Mrs. 
Springer. “But if I was in your shoes 
I’d have that pint measure outen that 
flour barrel : then, by takin’ two meas- 
ures to the quart, you kin most ginerly 
hit it. Law! I can’t cook fit for a can- 
nibal without I measure everything. I’ve 
hearn of people going by their head; 
but when folks talk to me about puttin’ 
judgment into my vittals, I tell ’em to 
go ’long.” 

“I don’t believe you,” I heard Miss 
Dayton say saucily to Mr. Abernethy. 

I glanced across the room and saw him 
smiling in her face. Miss Burritt’s next 
words brought me precipitately back to 
my own side of the room. 

“ I needn’t talk about lady boarders, 
though. Mr. Abernethy is more trouble 
than any six I ever saw. I wouldn’t 
board him another month for a hundred- 
dollar bill.” 

“ Why ?” I said. “ He never carries off 
the quart measures and things, does he ?” 


( 


WHEN I WAS A BOARDER. 


6i 


“Indeed he does, and gets them all 
smeared up with paint or some sort of 
musses. He’s the most troublesome hu- 
man being I ever saw in my life. You 
just ought to look into his room.” (I 
wished I could.) “ He’s got rocks and 
mosses, and leaves and dried flowers, 
and roots and bugs, and butterflies and 
birds’ eggs, and bottles of messes — ” 

“Why, I wonder he don’t git the 
• cholery a-sleepin’ with them nasty 
things ?” said Mrs. Springer. 

“And don’t you believe,” here Miss 
Burritt lowered her voice, “he’s got a 
skeleton up there ?” 

“You don’t say!” said Mrs. Springer 
with distended eyes — “a dead man’s 
skiliton ? Well, ef I was you. Miss Bur- 
ritt, I wouldn’t have sich sackerligious 
things going on in my house.” 

“ Oh, he’s always got something going 
on all the time. He’s everlastingly per- 
forming some experiment or other. He’s 
just ruined the carpet — spilled all sorts 
of things on it, and burnt great holes in 
it. And don’t you think 1 one day some 
machinery he had exploded, and come 
within one of setting the house afire.” 

“ Did a body ever hear the like ?” cried 
Mrs. Springer, leaning forward anxiously. 

“No indeed,” said Miss Burritt, “you 
little know what a life I lead. I don’t 
expect anything else in the world but 
that he’ll some day blow us all up or 
burn us up.” 

“Well, I must say, marm, you had 
oughter told me that afore I paid my 
bill: then I could a-went to house 
what’s safe, where a lone woman could 
sleep in peace. I daren’t shet my eyes 
all night, what with explodings and 
skilitons and sich. In course, you’ll 
give back the money for the lodgin’. 
I’m perfectly willin’ to pay for the vittals, 
though it’s a mighty small eater I be, 
but it ain’t Christian-like to ask a lone 
woman to pay for sleep what she doesn’t 
git.” 

Miss Burritt bristled at once. “ There 
isn’t a quieter or better-ordered house in 
this whole city than mine,” she declared. 

■ “ Of course I shouldn’t keep anybody in 
the house that wasn’t safe : of course I 
wouldn’t. I’d have more to lose than 


anybody else by a fire. Mr. Abernethy 
is one of the’most peaceable gentlemen 
I ever had to board with me, and if I — ” 

Here Miss Burritt was summoned out 
of the room. 

“Ain’t that gentleman Mr. Abernethy ?” 
Mrs. Springer asked. When I had an- 
swered her question she put on her brass- 
bowed glasses and inspected him as 
though he had been some curious species 
of animal, as who shall say he was not ? 
Then she went over to him and touched 
his arm : “ I wanted to ask you, please, 
not to be carryin’ on any of your abra- 
cadabras tell I git outen this house.” 

Mr. Abernethy stared at her in mute 
astonishment. Miss Dayton laughed : 
that’s what she generally did. 

“This lady,” I explained, “has heard 
that you are given to experimenting, and 
is alarmed lest some accident may occur 
while she is here.” 

Mr. Abernethy smiled and assured her 
that her fears were unnecessary. 

“What in the world are you experi- 
menting about, anyhow ?” inquired Miss 
Dayton. 

I wondered at her easy audacity toward 
this man, whose reticence and learning 
inspired me with unmitigated awe. 

“My most recent experiments have 
been directed to reclaiming the waste 
sulphuric acid that is used in refining 
petroleum, and to utilize it in the manu- 
facture of chemicals,” he replied simply. 

Mrs. Springer threw back her head 
and gazed through her glasses at him as 
at a speaker of an unknown tongue. 
“It does beat all,” she said, coming 
back to me, “what queer people a body 
meets a-travelin’, and what sights of 
folks there be on the move, to be sure. 
I thought as how there must be some- 
thing or other gwine on — a big show or 
’lection or something. You don’t know 
ef there is or not 

“ Nothing unusual, I think.” 

“ Dear me I When I got down in that 
big depot ’peared to me everybody was 
crazy — such runnin’ and hollerin’ ! I was 
clean beat. I never was worse scared in 
my life. I didn’t know which way to 
go. I asked everybody, but, law ! I 
couldn’t git no satisfaction outen no- 


62 


PFHEN I WAS A BOARDER. 


body. Byme-by a man teched me on 
the arm and said he’d take me to a nice 
boarding-house ef I’d get in his kerridge. 
I thought he was mighty kind, and he 
was a nice-lookin’ man, and so I put in 
my carpet-bag and bandbox, and he 
fetched me here. Well, I got outen the 
kerridge, made a curtsey to him and 
thanked him, when he said, ‘ Fifty cents, 
marm ;’ and, bless your heart ! it wasn’t 
mor’n a hundred yards I rode.” 

On and on Mrs. Springer went in her 
talk, I half listening to her as my mind 
kept wandering toward the other couple 
in the room. At length my companion 
left me, and shortly after I went to my 
room and to bed, where I lay awake a 
long time thinking of Mr. Abernethy 
and Miss Dayton. But it was not till 
the next evening that I again saw them 
together. We were sitting in the parlor. 
Miss Dayton and I, for the evenings 
were growing cool and our rooms were 
not yet warmed. I was reading : Miss 
Dayton sat by a table with a pile of 
sdiool-girl compositions before her : she 
was composition-teacher in the Rushford 
Academy. 

The door opened and Mr. Abernethy 
entered. Miss Dayton immediately took 
possession of him : “ Oh, Mr. Abernethy, 
do, please, come here and help me cor- 
rect these stupid compositions : I shall 
never get through with them. You’ve 
no idea how my eyes ache. Come along ! 
You’ve got to help me : I won’t let you 
off.” 

Mr. Abernethy went over with a little 
smile on his face, and sat down by the 
table. 

‘‘ It wouldn’t be fair for a stranger to 
look into these, would it?” he said. 

‘‘Oh, you don’t know the writers, and 
you won’t remember for five minutes 
that you ever saw the compositions. 
Here, now, go to work : here’s a pencil. 
Here are six pages of foolscap about the 
steam-engine. Now, I don’t know an 
earthly thing about the steam-engine : I 
never could understand it. I shouldn’t 
know it if there was an error in each 
sentence. So of course you must correct 
this. And as a rest after those six pages 
you may have this composition — a de- 


scription of Niagara Falls in seven lines. 
And here’s another essay for you. You’ll 
read in it, ‘ A little knowledge is a danger- 
ous thing.’ You needn’t take the trou- 
ble to correct the quotation : I’ve cor- 
rected it a score of times, for the lady 
gets it into every composition of hers, no 
matter what her subject is. And here is 
just one more I wish you to take charge 
of. This writer’s essays are nerve-ex- 
hausting drains on the sympathies : in 
every composition she kills off a golden - 
haired, cerulean-eyed infant.” 

“ I advise you to turn her over to the 
chief of police,” said Mr. Abernethy with 
a sober countenance. 

, Miss Dayton clapped her hands. 
‘‘Oh,” she exclaimed, ‘‘I’m so glad you 
can be funny ! I’ve been afraid that you 
hadn’t any ticklish spot. I was thinking 
that you were just my counterpart. A 
finger can’t be crooked at me but I gig- 
gle. I’m glad of it : I thank God every 
day for all the laughable folks he sends 
in my way.” 

Mr. Abernethy took the pencil and 
commenced oh ‘‘The Steam-Engine.” 
‘‘How do you correct a young lady’s 
composition ?” he asked. 

‘‘ Oh, I dot the f’s, and cross the t's, 
and underscore the misspelled words, 
and then shake a sieve of punctuation 
points over the page.” 

‘‘ Is that all ? Don’t you alter such a 
sentence as this ?” and he read from the 
composition : ‘“ The steam-engine is one 
of the most useful but at the same time 
hideous things in Nature.’ ” 

‘‘Well, I suppose I’d scratch out ‘ Na- 
ture,’ and write ‘ on earth,’ or ‘ in the 
universe,’ or ‘ in the solar system.’ Oh, 
I forgot to tell you there’s one word I 
never leave alive in any composition : 
I always stab it with my steel. It’s 
‘ streamlet.’ ” 

Mr. Abernethy addressed himself 
again to ‘‘The Steam-Engine.” ‘‘ Here,” 
he said, ‘‘is a string of nine adjectives in 
one sentence, and not a monosyllable 
among them. What shall I do with 
them ?” 

‘‘Just what seemeth unto thee best.” 

‘‘Then, I’ll draw my pencil through 
them.” 


WN£N- I WAS A BOARDER. 


“ Hold thy sacrilegious hand, O Van- 
dal !” Miss Dayton cried with mock 
heroics, grasping Mr. Abernethy’s wrist. 
“ Would you break that young woman’s 
heart ? Her adjectives are her idols. 
Ah,” she continued with a pathetic shake 
of the head, “you’ll never make a com- 
position-teacher for young ladies.” 

“I think you are right,” replied the 
gentleman. “ I hope, therefore, you will 
excuse me from any further work.” 

“Well, wait: I must read you this 
first. Do, Miss Tiffaine,” and Miss Day- 
ton turned to me, “stop reading a mo- 
ment and listen to this composition.” 
Then she read in school - girl style : 

Animals. — There are a great many 
different kinds of animals. In the sec- 
ond place, I will proceed to mention 
some : The horse, the cow, the dog, the 
cat, the gorilla, the snake, the tadpole, 
dears, sheeps, swines, a boy, a girl, a 
ant, a uncle, a alligator, a boar-constric- 
tor, a whale, a sardine, a catfish, a thrush, 
a elephant, a ’possum — ’ And thus it 
goes on, through these four pages of fools- 
cap, like the catalogue of a menagerie. It 
ends — ‘ a musquitoe and myself. Mary 
Jane Stringer.’ Now, what do you 
think of that, Mr. Abernethy ?” 

“I think it is good,” was the reply. 
“The writer says what she knows, and 
doesn’t attempt the impossible.” 

“ I think that if Miss Mary Jane Stringer 
had attempted something beyond her, 
she might, it is true, have fallen short of 
her aim — Well, really, that speech is 
worthy of any Irishman !” laughed Miss 
Dayton. “ I meant to say that, though 
she would have failed of her aim, she 
might have achieved more than she 
has.” 

“ But failures are such distressing 
things. The unambitious are spared 
much heart-burning.” 

Here I was called away, much to my 
discontent, for I felt a growing interest 
in the progress of matters between Mr. 
Abernethy and Miss Dayton. Miss Day- 
ton, it seemed to me, was simply amus- 
ing herself with one of the laughable 
people whom God had brought in her 
way, but what would be the effect on 
Mr. Abernethy ? I doubted if any other 


63 ' 

woman had ever so closely approached 
this singular man, if any other had dared 
to enter his privacy and compel him to 
hold converse with a personality rather 
than an abstraction. She had roused 
him from his somnambulism, but to her 
presence alone did he appear awake. 
All other people were indefinite to him 
as an audience of strangers to a speaker. 
More and more keenly did the convic- 
tion come to me that in all his thoughts 
I was not ; yet how superior I felt my- 
self to the laughing, flippant Miss Day- 
ton ! How much better able I was to 
estimate him ! Had I not been the very 
first in that boarding-house to speak a 
word for him ? to perceive that in him 
which was worth standing up for, when 
Miss Dayton and all the rest were only 
laughing at him ? I felt the right of a 
discoverer in him, and when, therefore, 

I perceived that Miss Dayton was taking 
possession of him, I was aggrieved : I 
was being supplanted. And I resented 
it that this, to me, unapproachable man 
permitted to this saucy girl a look into 
himself that he denied to me. As I 
have said, I held Mr. Abernethy in awe. 

I do not know that he was a very learn- 
ed or remarkable man judged by a critical 
standard, but he was to me very learned 
and very remarkable. I felt sure he was 
a genius who would some day make a 
stir in the world. But did I care for him 
in a special way? The question came 
often to me. 

The next morning, which was Sunday, 
Mr. Abernethy was late at breakfast, as 
he was apt to be. When he entered it 
was evident that he had been giving un- 
usual attention to his toilet. 

“ Do see how he’s fixed up !” said Miss 
Dayton to me as he came to his seat. 

“You must be careful how you speak,” 

I said. “ Do not suppose that Mr. Aber- 
nethy is as oblivious of all the world as 
he used to be.” 

She colored slightly, and began after 
her usual manner to order his breakfast. 
“Are you going to church to-day ?” she 
asked when he was seated. 

To my surprise he said yes. I had 
never known him to go to church. “An 
old college chum is to preach at the Sec- 


64 


WJIEJV I WAS A BOARDER. 


ond Presbyterian Church to-day, and I 
wish to see how he’ll do it,” he explained. 

” Why, that’s my church ! May I have 
the pleasure of your company?” said 
Miss Dayton with a courtly bow. 

“I’m obliged to say no,” Mr. Aber- 
nethy replied simply, “ for I promised to 
call for my friend.” 

Miss Dayton seemed greatly amused. 
“Isn’t that a good joke. Miss Tiffaine ?” 
she laughed, “ refused by a gentleman ! 
Where is your friend stopping ?” 

Mr. Abernethy’s face took on an ex- 
pression of helpless bewilderment. Then 
it became suddenly blank. “Why, I for- 
got to ask him,” he acknowledged with 
a refreshing straightforwardness. * 

“Oh, I am so glad !” cried Miss Dayton 
merrily. “Now you’ve got to go with 
me. You can’t think of another excuse, 
can you ?” 

“No,” he said. “God hath wrought 
good out of my stupidity.” 

I wondered if he meant anything by 
this, or if it was only a polite speech. 
When church-time arrived I saw them 
from my chamber -window walk off 
churchward together. And I saw them 
when they returned, for I had not moved 
my seat. My heart had been sorely 
stirred in the period between their de- 
parture and their return. When the 
dinner-bell rang I went down to the 
dining-room with a dreary feeling. How 
radiant Miss Dayton looked ! Her cheeks 
were like blush roses, her eyes were 
brimming with light. That new forest- 
green silk, with those soft laces about 
the throat and hands, how becoming it 
was ! I was scarcely seated at the table 
before Miss Burritt called out, to my an- 
noyance, to inquire if I had been to 
church. I said no, and blushed as I 
thought of the wicked feeling I had been 
cherishing during the morning. 

“You ain’t sick, are you?” persisted 
Miss Burritt. 

“No, not sick, only tired.” 

“Well, for my part, I can rest better at 
church than anywhere else,” she said. 

“I should think so,” assented Miss 
Dayton in an under tone, “from the way 
she sleeps through the sermon.” 

“And I think it my duty to go to 


church twice a Sunday unless I am sick,” 
continued Miss Burritt. “We did have 
such a splendid sermon to-day. I should 
be sorry if I had lost it.” 

“ What was the text ?” inquired one of 
the gentlemen. 

Miss Burritt colored and looked very 
silly. “Well, now, I can’t recall the ex- 
act words,” she said. 

“ What was the subject ?” persisted the- 
merciless inquisitor. 

“The fact of the matter is, I didn’t 
half hear the sermon,” Miss Burritt 
owned. “There were some ladies in the 
seat just ahead of me who kept up such 
a perpetual fidget, twisting and turning 
and smoothing down their silk dresses 
and buttoning their gloves and arranging 
their ribbons, that I couldn’t think of a 
single thing but them. Then there was 
Mrs. Deshler in the next seat. That 
woman’s enough to make the preacher 
himself forget the text. Just for the cu- 
riosity of the thing, I counted the colors 
she had on. How many do you suppose 
there were ? Only thirteen ! And her 
bonnet ! Did you notice it. Miss Day- 
ton ? She had flowers and feathers and 
blonde lace and thread and bead-trim- 
ming : such a mix ! Now, how can a 
woman with all that furbelowing and 
thirteen colors think of the senuon or 
join in the prayers ? And such horrid 
taste !” 

“The question with me is, How can a 
man with corns on his toes and tight 
boots on his corns say his prayers ?” said 
Dr. Skinner. “ I thought that Reverend 
Pink never would come to his ‘ lastly.’ I 
found half a dozen splendid stopping- 
places for him, but he’d get a new relay 
every time and be off again. Such a 
preacher ought to have a relay of audi- 
tors, four times at least, on one of his 
trips from text to amen.” 

“ Would not a change of subject be 
advisable?” asked the Reverend Mr. 
Ashley with quiet severity. A silence 
fell on the table. 

Miss Dayton broke in on the silence. 
“Mr. Abernethy, what’s the name of 
your friend who preached this morning ?” 

"His name?” said the gentleman ap- 
pealed to, starting a little — “his name? 


WHEN I WAS 

Barton? No, it isn’t Barton.” Mr. 
Abernethy gazed profoundly at his plate. 

” Parton ! William Parton is his name. 
Did you like him ?” 

‘‘Not a bit,” replied Miss Dayton. 

‘‘ He’s too pert : he hasn’t an atom of 
reverence. He talks to God as to a street 
acquaintance. His prayers are little else 
but gossip : they made me think of 
the local column of a daily newspaper, 
interspersed with editorial comments on 
the telegrams. And his sermon was a 
series of conundrums proposed to the 
audience.” 

‘‘The style of the sermon was cha- 
racteristic of the man. The boys at 
college used to call him ‘ Interrogation 
Point.’ Whether asking information or 
giving it, he employed the interrogative 
form. And he really has no reverence ; 
so that here, again, his manner is in har- 
mony with his character. There is, at 
least, no affectation about him. He is 
not afraid of God, and he makes no 
pretence of being. He thinks he has 
a right to live, so he doesn’t go to Heaven 
with an apology that he exists, or that 
he is a man and not an angel or a god. 

I am inclined to think that the Hearer 
of prayers is much more interested in 
the chatting and gossip, if you choose, 
of this honest man than in a vast deal 
that He hears in what are called prayers. 
A father had surely rather hear his child 
prattle about its toys and games than 
have it attempt metaphysics. God is 
doubtless often much amused at the 
sketches that are held up to His children 
as portraits of their Father.” 

‘‘Amused !” cried Miss Dayton. 

‘‘People do not conceive of God as 
being amused of desiring amusement. 
Now, I have no question but that He has 
a boundless enjoyment of the humorous. 
Isn’t such a Being more lovable than a 
divinity creating worlds for his own 
glory ? Each mind has its God as each 
eye has its horizon, and each mind 
stamps on its conception the attributes 
most admirable to itself, and excludes 
everything that is distasteful. Now, I 
am of such a sombre cast that I have a 
dread of the shadows in others : hence 
my God is a joyous divinity. I can con- 
5 


A BOARDER. 65 

ceive Him as laughing heartily at the 
laughable things in my life.” 

Miss Dayton colored : she evidently 
made a personal application of Mr. Ab- 
ernethy’s' remarks. ‘‘Well, that is the 
strangest idea of God that I ever heard 
expressed,” she said. 

‘‘If God frowns, why shouldn’t he 
laugh? The first thing demanded in 
religion is a recognition of the person- 
ality of God. God has every attribute 
of personality,” said Mr. Abernethy ; and 
then he went on, deeper and deeper, into 
metaphysics, which I did not compre- 
hend then, and which I cannot recall 
now. 

I went up to my room unhappy and 
distracted. Mr. Abernethy, the man 
whom I most cared for in all the world, 
seemed to be drifting farther and farther 
from me. I was sure of this, but I could 
do nothing, would do nothing, to bridge 
the gulf between us ; for along with 
everything else which interposed was 
my own pride. When we were all alike 
vague to him — lay figures on which to 
try his arguments or disquisitions — I 
could talk with him without feeling my 
remoteness. But now another’s near- 
ness had crowded me to the background, 
and my pride kept me there. I studious- 
ly refrained from bringing myself to his 
notice, if indeed it would have been 
possible for me to command his atten- 
tion in the sense in which Miss Dayton 
had secured it, and yet I did not feel sure 
that he loved Miss Dayton or that she 
loved him. I dropped to sleep with my 
mind full of the subject. 

Some hours later I was roused by the 
fire-bells and by loud talking in our 
halls. I started up in bed : my room 
was as light as day. I rushed to the 
window r a brick house across the street 
was on fire. I stood for some moments 
watching the fascinating horror — saw 
the flames creeping up and up toward 
the roof, licking up every bit of wood- 
work. Suddenly a woman’s shriek 
pierced the air : a child was in that burn- 
ing house. There were not two dozen 
people on the ground, and no sound of 
an engine coming to our aid. Oh, how 
my heart throbbed ! I wondered if there 


66 


WHEN- I WAS A BOARDER. 


were one hero there to attempt the rescue. 
How I longed for the cheering noise of 
the engine, for a score of brave firemen ! 
I saw a long ladder placed against the 
wall. I saw a man on its rounds mount- 
ing into that fiery furnace, and my heart 
was thrilled. Suddenly it stood still : I 
had recognized the hero. It was Mr. 
Abernethy. I did not shriek or scream 
or swoon, but watched with fascinated 
gaze as up and up, through smoke and 
flame, went the man whom in all the 
world I most cared for. I saw him dis- 
appear through the window into that 
flaming building,' and then I saw little 
more for the tears that were blinding me 
and the fear that was devouring me. 
With trembling hands I dressed myself. 
Faint and dizzy, I staggered down the 
stairs. In the hall I heard a cry of agony 
that went through my heart. I rushed 
to the parlor, whence it had proceeded. 
The room was thronged with people. 
Some men were arranging on a sofa the 
body of a man. It was Mr. Abernethy’s. 
Some others were bearing away another 
body with white face and with long fair 
hair streaming over the shoulders. This 
was Belle Dayton. I can never tell how 
awestruck, how guilty, how wretched I 
felt at that moment, as if a lightning’s 
flash had revealed in my path a yawn- 
ing abyss. Oh how I worked with the 
doctors for those two lives ! Mr. Aber- 
nethy revived first, and soon after Miss 
Dayton opened her fine eyes. I was 
kneeling beside her as she did so. Put- 
ting down my lips to kiss her cheek, I 
whispered, “Mr. Abernethy is very little 
hurt : he was only stunned by the fall. 
He leaped from the window, it seems.” 

Her cheek flushed crimson. She sat 
up, and would have left the room, but the 
physician gently reseated her. “Keep 
quiet a few moments,” he said. 

“What did I do with it?” we heard 
Mr. Abernethy say in a bewildered way. 
“Let me see. Well, it’s strange, but I 
cannot remember what I did with that 
baby.” 

“ Recall all the circumstances,” said a 
bystander: “that may help you to re- 
member. Where was the child when 
you climbed through the window ?” 


“ It was on a bed asleep,” replied Mr. 
Abernethy. “ Yes, yes, now I remember. 
I rolled the baby up in the feather bed, 
tied a sheet round it, and dropped it 
from the window ; and I’m afraid it’s 
tied up there yet.” 

At this Belle Dayton suddenly burst 
out laughing and left the room. I quickly 
followed, almost equally amused at the 
comical aspect the affair had assumed. 
We ran up to her bed-room. I thought 
we should never stop laughing, for I was 
happy enough now to laugh. 

“ Did you ever, in your life, know any- 
thing so funny ?” she said between her 
outbursts. “The idea of forgetting what 
he did with that baby !” and off she went 
into another laugh. “Why, suppose the 
baby has been smothered ?” she said, 
suddenly sobering. “Wouldn’t that be 
dreadful, after he had risked his life to 
save it, too ? Let’s go and see if we can 
hear anything of it.” 

Yes, the baby had been found quietly 
sleeping in the feather bed, although this 
had been piled on a wagon with chairs, 
tables, etc., and moved three blocks. 
Mr. Abernethy’s burns, too, had been 
dressed, and he was comfortable. So 
Belle and I had another laugh together. 
Then she cried, and so did 1. 

Well, that night’s experience was a 
revelation to me. It showed me that 
envy, the meanest of the mean things 
that defile the heart, had got into mine. 
Perhaps I should not be so free to con- 
fess this if I had not also a victory to re- 
cord. I had been nigh hating my friend, 
and that without the poor excuse of lov- 
ing the man who had come between us ; 
for another thing that stood revealed to 
me by the events of that night was, that 
I did not love Mr. Abernethy, and that 
Miss Dayton did. Mine was not a pa- 
thetic case of disappointed affections : 
my vanity simply had been wounded. 
And when I that night stood in the pres- 
ence of the holy thing which mortals 
have named love, and of a love doubly 
holy from impending shadows, I seemed 
the guilty wretch who had committed 
sacrilege, for had I not in thought, which 
might have blossomed into deed, med- 
dled with the sacred thing ? 


I WAS A BOARDER. 


67 


Miss Dayton grew shy toward Mr. 
Abernethy. At table she had little to 
say to him, and did not render her usual 
service, leaving him to the care of the 
servants, though he stood more in need 
of help than before, for his right hand 
was badly burned. Her old banter and 
charming playfulness were gone : there 
was a perceptible toning down in her voice 
and manner. Did he miss the grateful 
ministry ? and did the sense of priva- 
tion enlighten him as to his own feeling 
for this woman ? He also had changed, 
I could hardly tell how, but he seemed 
more like other people. He was more 
in the parlor. Was it because he had 
leisure from his writings since the phy- 
sicians had passed some prohibitions 
against his using his eyes ? or did he 
hope to encounter Miss Dayton ? If so, 
he was fated to disappointment, for the 
lady studiously kept out of his way until 
I was almost angry. 

r proposed one evening, as he sat in 
the parlor in forlorn helplessness, to read 
something to him ; for I too had changed : 
my awe had passed away, and I felt for 
him an honest and warm friendship. He 
seemed pleased with my proposition, and 
when I asked him to select the reading 
he went up to his room and brought me 
Tredgold on Cast Iron. I was appalled, 
but I plunged bravely in, and read and 
read, on and on, till it grew as meaning- 
less to me as the grinding of a coffee- 
mill. After a time I began to blunder, 
for I was actually nodding as I read. I 
closed the book. 

The pause in the reading brought the 
listener’s attention to the reader. Seeing 
this, I let fly an arrow I had long had 
strung for him : “Mr. Abernethy, I have 
bad news: we are going to lose Miss 
Dayton.’’ 

I saw by the quick start and the sud- 
den eagerness in his eyes that my shot 
had reached its. mark. 

Where is she going?’’ 

To another boarding-house.’’ I had 
heard Miss Burritt reiterate her resolve 
not to board Miss Dayton after the close 
of the month. 

“Has she said why she will leave ?’’ 

“No.’’ 


He became silent. 

“ I am very sorry she is going,’’ I said. 
“She is a fine woman.’’ ^ 

“Yes,’’ he assented. 

“ She is very emotional.’’ Then look- 
ing him straight in the eyes, I added : 
“When you werp brought in the night 
of the fire she was completely overcome, 
and fell to the floor insensible,’’ 

“Is that true?’’ he asked with a light 
in his eyes and a tremor in his voice. 

I felt that I had brought down my 
game. I showed him no mercy. 

“Mr. Abernethy, were you ever in 
love ?’’ I asked with an audacity worthy 
of Belle Dayton in her sauciest days. 
“You’re in love now,’’ I continued, feel- 
ing that I had firm earth beneath my 
feet. “You love Miss Dayton. Have 
you ever told her so ?’’ 

“ No. Why should I ? I ought never 
to ask her to marry me, and she ought 
never to marry me if I should ask her. 
I can never make a married man,’’ he 
said smiling. 

“Why not?’’ 

“ I am wanting in adaptability. I’ve 
always been a trial to my mother, my 
sisters, my landlady, to every woman 
who has had any responsibility about 
me.’’ He smiled in a pathetic way. 

“But can’t you mend your ways for 
the sake of one you love ?’’ 

“ I could never be sure that my patch- 
work would hold. I should be all the 
while commiserating my wife that she 
had such a husband. Miss Dayton, too, 
is born to shine : she is beautiful and 
sparkling. I am a very dullard in society. 
I have no business in the parlor; my 
place is the closet. She could never like 
my closet : I could never like her salon. 
Besides, I am a poor man. She must 
marry a rich husband. Two thousand 
dollars a year is the utmost I can make 
at my translating and essaying.’’ 

“Mr. Abernethy, suppose the matter 
rested entirely with you, would you choose 
a two-thousand-dollar life with Miss Day- 
ton or a ten-thousand-dollar one with an- 
other ?’’ 

He smiled, but beyond the smile I 
caught the gleam of tears. “Now, sir,’’ 
I went on, “you are assuming that you 


68 


WHEJV I WAS A BOARDER. 


are superior to the woman you love. In 
your case you are sure that the higher 
nature w»uld triumph — in hers it would 
go under. Perhaps Miss Dayton’s choice 
would be the same as yours. I think 
you should, at least, allow her an option 
and yourself a chance. Do you dread 
a refusal?” 

” No. I am afraid of being selfish.” 

That same evening Miss Dayton came 
to my room. Her cheeks and eyes indi- 
cated excitement. 

“What do you think ?” she said. “ Miss 
Burritt has given me warning. She had 
die impertinence to tell me that she could 
not board me another month. She says 
I carry off her quart cup.” Here she 
burst into a laugh. “ I suppose I de- 
serve the penitentiary.” 

“Well, never mind,” I replied: “I 
think she’s going to give Mr. Abernethy 
warning too. You and he can leave 
and go to housekeeping together.” She 
blushed scarlet. “Why not ? You love 
each other. Don’t be offended. I have 
good authority for what I say. Mr. Ab- 
ernethy told me not half an hour ago that 
he loved you.” 

“ Did he say so ?” She put her head 
on the table. 

“ I’m not certain, though, that he’ll ever 
tell you so unless you help him to do it.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, 
suddenly lifting her head. 

“I mean that some mhn are so dis- 
trustful of themselves that a woman 
must — ” 

“I’ll never coax a man to offer me 
marriage,” she said haughtily. 

“You don’t understand me,” I hasten- 
ed to explain, but I only made matters 
worse. 

The next morning she came into the 
telegraph-office where I was at work. 

“ Have you found a boarding-place ?” 
I asked. 

She smiled archly. “We are going 
to take your advice,” she said: “we’re 
going to housekeeping together.” 

Of course, I knew what that little word 
“we” comprehended. 

“ Then Mr. Abernethy has asked you 
to marry him ?” 

“Oh no, indeed,” she laughed: “he 


begged me not to marry him. It was 
very funny, but oh so sweet!” and the 
quick tears came to her eyes. “Do 
you know, I think he’s better suited to 
me than anybody else in the world could 
be. You see, I don’t know a thing about 
housekeeping, especially cooking. Most 
men are so particular about what they 
eat. I can imagine a man after a month 
at my table going from it to the lunatic 
asylum. But Mr. Abernethy will never 
know even 'when house-cleaning days 
come. Of course I mean to learn house- 
keeping — I’ve bought a cook-book — but 
I feel certain there’ll be sad mistakes for 
a while.” 

“ I feel sure you will be very happy 
together,” I said. 

“Happy! I’m sure there is nothing 
he would not do for me. Why, he offer- 
ed to dispose of his collections of fossils 
and shells and plants — they’d be in my 
way, he thought, the „dear soul! — after 
he’s tramped all over creation to collect 
them. I tell you the mortal doesn’t live 
who is good enough to own those things 
that have so much of his devotion and 
dear life in them. I feel as if I loved 
every one of the blessed things for his 
sake. I’m going to help him fix them 
up in frames and cases, and we’ll take 
care of them together. You’ll come to 
the wedding — won’t you? — at the par- 
sonage of the Second Presbyterian, at 
four o’clock this afternoon. Then we’re 
going straight home, and begin house- 
keeping as soon as we get there. Did I 
tell you ? I bought a furnished cottage 
this morning with my little savings, a 
perfect little bird’s nest in Sycamore 
street.” 

Well, I went round to the parsonage 
and saw them married. Then, while 
they drove off to their dove-cot, I walked 
back to the old boarding-house. In the 
hall I met Miss Burritt. “Well,” she 
said, when I had told her all about it, 
“I don’t like Miss Dayton, but I’m sorry 
for any woman who’s got that man with 
all his rocks and bugs and traps to look 
after.” 

As for me, I didn’t feel an atom of 
pity for either of them. 


HER CHANCE. 


69 


HER CHANCE. 


A/TARY TRIGILLGUS tucked the 
money away in her purse. It was 
a very small sum, but it was the utmost 
that could be spared for the evening out- 
fit : she and her mother had talked it 
all over, and^such was the decision. 

“ Now, Mary,” said her mother, “don’t 
get a tarletan, or anything exclusively 
for evening wear : you so seldom go to 
parties that you can’t afford such a dress. 
I would try to get a nice silk. Some- 
thing that’s a little out of style by being 
made up fashionably might answer very 
well.” 

Mary gave a sigh and turned her face 
toward the shops,' feeling how difficult 
it would be to purchase a fashionable 
outfit with the scanty sum in her purse. 
And she sighed many another time that 
afternoon as she went from shop to shop. 
The goods were too expensive for her 
slender purse, or they were poor or old- 
fashioned. Twilight was settling down 
on the gay streets ; window after window 
was flashing into light, revealing misty 
laces with gay ribbons and silks stream- 
ing like banners ; the lamplighters on 
every hand were building their walls of 
flame ; and yet Mary wandered from store 
to store, each moment more bewildered 
and undecided as to the best investment 
for her money. 

She approached a brilliant store, pass- 
ed it with lingering step, then paused, 
turned back, and stood looking down 
the glittering aisle. The large mirror at 
• the farther end seemed scarcely broader 
than the little cracked bureau-glass in 
her humble room before which she dress- 
ed her hair in the mornings. The clerks 
were hurrying to and fro, eager and 
business-like, while fine ladies were com- 
ing and going, jostling her as she stood 
just outside the door. Among the hur- 
rying forms her eye sought one familiar 
and loved : not a woman’s, I need 
scarcely say, else why does she stand 
in the shadow there, with her veil half 
drawn over her face, trembling and 


frightened? Why else does her cheek 
glow with shame? 

Poor Mary ! You feel like a guilty 
thing in thus seeking a man who has 
never declared his love ; but let me 
whisper a word in your ear : True love 
is woman’s blue ribbon of honor : with- 
out it her nature is the rose tree without 
the rose — the dead egg among the cliffs : 
quickened by the grand passion, it is the 
eagle sparing to the stars. Your heart 
is a grander thing now than ever before. 
Next to loving God, the best thing for 
woman is to love a good man. Take 
the comfort of this thought, and leave 
the humiliation to the heart too hard or 
too light for loving. 

Were I looking into your eyes, my 
reader, telling my story by word of 
mouth, I can fancy we might hold some- 
thing like this dialogue : “ Whom was 
Mary Trigillgus, this keeper of a small 
day-school — whom was she seeking in 
this brilliant store ? One of the under- 
clerks, perhaps ?” “No.” “The book- 
keeper?” “No.” "The confidential 
clerk?” “You must guess again,” “The 
junior partner ?” “ No, it was Christian 

Van Pelt, the sole proprietor of. that 
fine establishment, one of the merchant 
princes of the city.” “But what right 
had Mary Trigillgus, this obscure school- 
teacher, to love this man of fortune ? 
How did she ever come to his acquaint- 
ance ?” And then I should tell you a 
very long story, and a tedious one per- 
haps, of two Hollanders, close friends, 
who settled in New Amsterdam ; of how 
fortune had prospered the one until 
Christian Van Pelt, his lineal descend- 
ant, was among the leaders in the dry- 
goods trade of New York City ; of how 
various disasters had befallen the family 
of the other, until the daughter of the 
house, and its only lineal descendant, 
Mary Trigillgus’s mother, had married 
an intemperate spendthrift, who had at 
his death left her penniless, though the 
grandchild, Mary Trigillgus, had in- 


70 


HER CHANCE, 


herited the small house in which mother 
and daughter found a home. 

In the back parlor Mary kept a school 
for small children ; the front chamber 
was let to a quiet man, who went down 
town at eight and returned at five, and 
whom they seldom saw except when he 
rapped at the sitting-room door on the 
first day of every month to hand in the 
three five-dollar bills which covered his 
rent. Besides these sources of revenue 
there were a few day-boarders, who 
sometimes paid for their keeping and 
sometimes did not. 

An intercourse and a show of friend- 
ship had all along been maintained be- 
tween the families of these Hollanders ; 
and now Mrs. Van Pelt, the young mer- 
chant’s mother, was to give a large par- 
ty. Mary Trigillgus had been invited, 
and her mother had insisted on an ac- 
ceptance of the invitation. 

“ They are quite friendly to you, Mary, 
and you can’t afford to throw away such 
friends,” the mother said. 

So it was for Christian Van Pelt’s 
broad, square figure that Mary’s eager 
eyes were seeking; but in vain they 
sought : it was nowhere to be seen. A 
choking feeling of disappointment rose 
in her heart — a disappointment very un- 
equal to the occasion, since she had 
meant nothing more than to get a sight 
of the loved figure and then to go on her 
way. Having satisfied herself that he 
was not in the store, a yearning desire 
possessed her to enter the place where 
he every day walked — a place to her 
invested with romance, haunte'd by his 
presence — a place to which her thoughts 
often wandered as some stupid child 
stood by her side in the little school- 
room spelling out his reading -lesson. 
She had not for months entered the 
store — not since that evening when, in 
her poor parlor, Christian Van Pelt, the 
rich young merchant, had looked into 
her eyes with a look that thrilled her for 
many a day, and spoken some nothings 
in tones that set her heart throbbing. 
Indeed, since that day she had avoided 
passing the store, lest she might seem, 
even to herself, to be seeking him. And 
yet her poor eyes and heart were ever I 


seeking him in the countless throngs that 
passed up and down the busy streets. 

‘‘I’ll get my dress from his store,” she 
said mentally. ‘‘ I shall wear it with the 
greater pleasure that he has handled it. 
My patronage will be to him but as the 
drop to the ocean,” she said with a little 
bitterness, ‘‘but it will be a sweet thought 
to me that I have contributed even one 
drop to the flood of his prosperity.” 

So she entered Christiah Van Pelt’s 
trade-palace, and said, in answer to the 
smart clerk’s look of inquiry, ‘‘ I am 
looking for a silk that will do for the 
evening and also for the street — some- 
thing a little out of style, perhaps, might 
answer.” 

‘‘We have some bargains in such 
silks — elegant dress-patterns at a third 
of what they cost us in Paris. Step this 
way and Mary found herself going 
back and back through the spacious 
building, with her image advancing to 
meet her. 

In a few seconds the counter was 
strewn with silks at most enticing figures, 
and the clerk showed them off to such 
advantage, gathering them so dexterous- 
ly into elegant folds, shifting them so 
skillfully in the brilliant gas-light, per- 
suading the lady, in the mean while, in 
such a clever, lawyer-like way ; ‘‘ These 
cost us in Paris three times the money 
I am offering them for, and they are but 
very little passe ; there is an extraordi- 
nary demand for them ; they are going 
like wildfire ; country merchants are or- 
dering them by the score ; we sent eighty 
pieces to Chicago, to one house, yester- 
day, and fifty patterns to Omaha this 
morning ; one hundred and ten we last 
week shipped to the South ; the whole 
lot will perhaps be sold by to-morrow,” 
etc. — that poor Mary felt like a specula- 
tor on the verge of a great chance. So 
she decided on a light-green brocade, 
and could not gainsay the smooth- 
tongued clerk as he assured her, while 
tying the bundle, that she had secured a 
very handsome and elegant dress at a 
great bargain. 

The next day Mary and her mocher 
spent in studying and discussing the latest 
fashion-plates, but the elaborate descnp 


HER CHANCE. 


71 


tions of expensive costumes plunged the 
girl into another state of bewilderment 
and slough of despond. She heartily 
regretted having accepted the invitation. 
She began to dread the party as an exe- 
cution — to shrink from exhibiting herself 
to Christian with the fine ladies and gen- 
tlemen who would form the company at 
Mrs. Van Pelt’s. However, the dress 
was cut and made, and in this there 
was a fair degree of success, for neces- 
sity had taught these women consider- 
able skill in the use of the scissors and 
needle. The dress was trimmed with 
some handsome old lace that had been 
in the mother’s family for years. Mrs. 
Trigillgus pronounced the dress very 
handsome as she spread it on the bed 
and stepped off to survey it, and even 
the despondent Mary took heart, and 
as she surveyed her image in the mirror 
at the conclusion of her toilet for the 
important evening, she felt a degree of 
complacency toward herself — a feeling 
of admiration even. 

“You look like a snowdrop, dear,’’ 
said the mother fondly ; and the com- 
parison was not inapt, for the young 
girl’s Saxon complexion and fair hair 
were in pretty contrast with the lace- 
decked silk of delicate green falling 
about her. 

As she had no attendant, she went 
early to Mrs. Van Pelt’s, feeling at lib- 
erty to be unceremonious ; and she 
thought, with a beating heart, that Chris- 
tian would be her escort home. Mrs. 
Van Pelt was not in the parlor when 
Mary entered, but Christian received her 
kindly, though with a slight embarrass- 
ment that embarrassed her. She tried 
to keep the love-flicker from her eyes 
and the love-tremor from her voice as 
she sat there alone with the man she 
loved, trying to reply indifferently, to his 
indifferent remarks, and wondering if 
he could not hear the beating of her 
heart. She was greatly relieved at the 
entrance of Mrs. Van Pelt. When this 
lady had kissed her guest, she stepped 
off a few paces and looked the girl over. 

“Your dress is very becoming, my 
dear,’’ she said, “but why did you get a 
brocade ? Don’t you know that bro- 


cades are out of style ? Nobody wears 
brocades ; and they are not trimming 
with lace at all. I wish you had advised 
with me.’’ 

The blood rushed to Mary’s face. 
Though she did not turn her eyes to 
Christian’s, she knew that they were 
looking at her — that he was noting her 
confusion and comprehending its cause. 
“ He knows why I have bought this bro- 
cade,’’ was her thought, “and he knows 
that 1 am humiliated in having my pov- 
erty held up to his view. Of course 
Christian knows that I am poor, and 
he must know, as a consequence, that I 
wear poor clothes. I can endure that 
he should know this in a general way, 
while I shrink from having the details 
of my poverty revealed to him. I would 
not wish my patched gaiters and darned 
stockings held up for his inspection.’’ 

Mary hesitated a moment before re- 
plying to Mrs. Van Pelt’s criticism. 
Then, with a feeling that it was better to 
acknowledge a poverty of which both 
her companions were cognizant than 
an ignorance of style, she said, with a 
slight kindling of the eye, “ I decided 
on this dress from economical consider- 
ations, and the lace is some which my 
mother’s great - grandmother brought 
from Holland. — I have reminded them, 
at least, that I had a grandfather,’’ she 
thought. 

As she finished speaking she lifted 
her eyes to Christian’s. She could not 
understand the expression she saw there. 
But the poor girl’s satisfaction in her 
dress was all gone. She was ready to 
reproach her mother for the reassuring 
words that had helped to generate it. 
“ What if it is pretty ? it is old-fash- 
ioned. No matter that the lace is rich, 
when nobody wears it. I must look as 
though I were dressed in my grand- 
mother’s clothes. I wish I was back in 
my poor home. There I am at least 
sheltered from criticism. I am a fool in 
daring to face fashion : I am the silly 
moth in the candle.’’ 

If these were Mary’s thoughts as she 
sat there with her two friends, what must 
they have become as the regally-dressed 
ladies, one after another, were an- 


72 


HER CHANCE. 


nounced ? There were the majestic 
sweep of velvet, the floating of cloudlike 
gossamer, the flashing diamond, the 
starry pearl, the flaming ruby, the blaz- 
ing carbuncle. There were marvelous 
toilets where contrast and harmony and 
picturesqueness — the effect of every col- 
or and ornament — had been patiently 
studied as the artist studies each shade 
and line on his canvas. And when the 
laugh and the jest and the wit were 
sounding all about her, and the intoxi- 
cating music came sweeping in from the 
dancing-room, there came over Mary a 
lost feeling amid the strange faces and 
voices — a bewildered, dizzy feeling, such 
as the semi-conscious opium-eater might 
have, half real, half dreaming. It was 
all so strange, so separate from her, as 
though, herself invisible, she was watch- 
ing a festival among a different order 
of beings. Everybody was coming and 
going, continually varying his pastime, 
while she sat as unobserved as though 
invisible. Occasionally an eye-glass was 
leveled at her, or some lady accidentally 
placed beside her superciliously inspect- 
ed the lace and green brocade. 

Mrs. Van Pelt found her in the course 
of the evening, and insisted that she 
should go to the dancing-room and see 
the dancing. Mary begged to remain 
seated where she was. She dreaded any 
move that would render her more con- 
spicuous, and dreaded especially being 
recalled to Christian’s mind. But the 
hostess insisted, so the wretched girl 
crept out of her retreat, and with a dizzy 
step traversed the parlors and halls to 
the dancing-rooms. The band was play- 
ing a delicious waltz, and graceful ladies 
and elegant gentlemen were moving to, 
its measures. Mary’s eyes soon discov- 
ered Christian waltzing with a young 
girl in a rose-colored silk. She was not 
a marked beauty, but the face was re- 
fined and pretty, and was uplifted to 
Christian’s with a look of listening in- 
terest. A pang of jealousy shot through 
Mary’s heart as she saw this and noted 
the close embrace in which Christian 
held his partner, with his face bent down 
to hers. Soon they came whirling by. 

“ There is Christian with Miss Jerome,” 


said Mrs. Van Pelt. “ Her father is said 
to be worth four millions.” 

The next moment Mrs. Van Pelt was 
called away, and Mary was again left to 
her isolation. With a dread of having 
Christian see her there, old-fashioned 
and neglected, a stranger to every in- 
dividual in the assemblage of wealth 
and fashion, she slipped quietl> .way 
into the library, where some elderly peo- 
ple were playing whist. She would have 
gone home, but she lived in an obscure 
street some distance away. With a sense 
of suffocation she now remembered that 
she would have to recall herself to Chris- 
tian’s mind, for she must depend upon 
him to see her home. ” He has not 
thought of me once this evening,” she 
said bitterly. Soon supper was an- 
nounced. Gentlemen and ladies began 
to pair off, not one mindful of her. She 
was hesitating between remaining there 
in the library and going '-unattended to 
the refreshment-room, when a white- 
haired gentleman entered from the par- 
lor. He glanced at Mary, and was pass- 
ing on when he paused and looked again. 
A moment of hesitation ensued while the 
young girl and the old gentleman gazed 
at each other. 

” Miss Trigillgus, I believe?” he said, 
finally. ‘‘My name is Ten Eyck. I 
knew your mother when she was a girl, 
and I knew her father. Allow me the 
pleasure of escorting you to supper.” 

Mary took the proffered arm with the 
feeling of one who unexpectedly en- 
counters a friend in a foreign land. 

As he reseated her in the library after 
supper he said, ‘‘Present me kindly to 
your mother : if ever I can serve her, I 
should be glad to do so.” 

At length the party was ended. Every 
guest had gone except Miss Trigillgus. 

‘‘ I’m afraid I shall have to trouble you 
to see me home, Mr. Van Pelt,” she said 
to Christian with a burning at her heart. 

" Allow me the pleasure, you mean to 
say,” replied Christian with a bow. 

This was but a passing pleasantry, and 
Mary should not have allowed it to bring 
the color to her cheek, and that peculiar, 
half-disdainful look to her eye and lip. 

‘‘I fear you haven’t had a pleasant 


HER CHANCE. 


73 


evening,” said Mrs. Van Pelt as Mary 
took leave of her hostess. 

‘‘It was not to be expected that I 
should, being an entire stranger.” 

‘‘Well, dear, come and spend a quiet 
evening with me soon ; and give my 
love to your mother.” 

Mary went up to the dressing-room, 
and soon reappeared, looking demure 
and nun-like in her white hood and 
black-and-white plaid shawl. How she 
dreaded the ride home with Christian ! 
and yet for a whole week she had been 
longing for this very thing. The thought 
of the party had always brought the 
throbbing anticipation of the ride with 
Christian after the party. How near he 
had seemed then, and ever since the 
memorable evening when they had sat 
together over that book of engravings ! 
How happy she had been then ! how 
hopeful of his love ! But now, what a 
gulf there seemed between them ! What 
had she to do with this atmosphere of 
wealth and luxury and fashion where 
Christian dwelt ? He had been pleased 
to amuse himself for a brief space with 
looking into her eyes, with making some 
silly speeches, which he had straightway 
forgotten, but which she — poor fool ! — 
had laid away in her heart. 

Thus she was thinking as Christian 
handed her into the carriage. She won- 
dered what he would talk about. For a 
time there was a constrained and painful 
silence, and Mary tried to think of some- 
thing to say, that she might hide her 
aching heart from his merciless gaze. 
Finally she remarked that the streets 
were quiet, and he that the night was 
fine ; and in such commonplaces the 
ride was passed. 

Mary found her mother up, eager to 
learn her impressions of the first large 
party she had ever attended. 

‘‘I am very tired, mother,” she said, 
determined to end the torturing inqui- 
sition, ‘‘and am aching to get to bed. 
I’ll tell you about the party to-morrow. 
Don’t call me early : let me have a good 
sleep.” 

With a feeling of sickening disgust 
she laid off the silk and lace and flowers 
which a few hours before had so pleased 


her. The pale face which met her as 
she stood before her mirror was very un- 
like the happy, expectant face she had 
seen there in the early evening. Turn- 
ing from the piteous image, she hurried- 
ly put the mean dress away, longing to 
have the sheltering darkness about her. 
Soon she had laid her head on the pillow, 
where, with eyes staring into the dark- 
ness, it throbbed for a weary while. 
‘‘What am I to Christian Van Pelt?” 
This was the question the poor heart 
argued and re-argued. One sweet de- 
licious evening stood over against this 
last, so full of heartache. 

The next morning Mary felt weary 
with all the world. Her home seemed 
poorer and meaner than ever ; the board- 
ers disgusted her with their coarseness ; 
teaching was unrelieved drudgery ; ev- 
erything was distasteful. To her moth- 
er’s renewed inquiries about the party 
she replied wearily, ‘‘ My dress was poor 
and mean, mother ; and had I spent our 
year’s income on my toilet, it would have 
still been poor, compared with those I 
saw last night. For such as I there is 
nothing in fashionable life but heart- 
burning and humiliation.” 

A few days after this there came from 
Mrs. Van Pelt to Miss Trigillgus an in- 
vitation to tea. She at once longed and 
dreaded to meet Christian ; so the invi- 
tation was declined on the plea of indis- 
position. It was renewed two evenings 
later, and she was obliged to accept it. 
Mary never looked better than on that 
evening. She wore a blue empress- 
cloth, which heightened the fairness of 
her complexion and of her bright hair. 
After tea she and Mrs. Van Pelt were 
looking at some old pictures. They were 
discussing an ambrotype of herself, 
taken when she was thirteen, when a 
servant announced guests in the parlor. 

‘‘You were a pretty child, my dear,” 
said Mrs. Van Pelt, rising to go to the 
parlor, ‘‘and you are a handsome wo- 
man — a beautiful woman, I may say — 
your beauty ought to be a fortune to you 
— but you lack style. I must take you 
in hand,” she continued, talking all tlie 
way to the door. ‘‘ I shall need some 
amusement after Christian’s marriage, to 


74 


HER CHANCE. 


keep me from being jealous of his little 
wife and she disappeared through the 
door, little dreaming of the arrow she 
had sent to the poor heart. 

Mary caught her breath, and Christian 
saw her stagger at the shot. Taken by 
surprise, completely off his guard, he 
opened his arms and received the strick- 
en girl in his bosom, and pressed his 
lips to hers. But Mary had not lost her 
consciousness. Quickly recovering,'she 
disengaged herself and reached a chair. 
She was more self-possessed than he. 
He sat down beside her, quivering in 
every fibre. 

“Mary! Mary I” he cried in passion- 
ate beseechment, “ I never meant to win 
your love to betray it. We have both 
been surprised into a confession of our 
love for each other, and now let me lay 
open my heart to you. I do love you, 
as you must have seen, for I have not 
been always able to keep the love out 
of my eyes and voice. You will recall 
one evening — I know you must remem- 
ber it — when I was near declaring my 
love and asking you to be my wife. I 
don’t know why 1 did not — why I left 
my story but half told. I sometimes 
wish that I had declared myself fully, 
and that we were now pledged to each 
other. But the very next morning I sus- 
tained heavy losses in my business, and 
others soon followed, and to-day I am 
threatened with utter ruin. If I cannot 
raise a hundred thousand dollars this 
week, and as much in another week, I 
am a bankrupt. And now you will un- 
derstand why in two days I am to mar- 
ry Miss Jerome.” 

Mary started again. Was the execu- 
tion, then, so near ? She drew a long 
breath, as though gathering her strength 
for a hard struggle. “Christian,” she 
said in a low tone that trembled with the 
energy underlying it, “my poor Chris- 
tian, you are bewildered. These trou- 
bles have shut the light away from your 
path, and you have lost your way in the 
darkness. If this is true which you have 
told me, do you not see that when you 
have -delivered yourself from this threat- 
ened bankruptcy, you are yet a bank- 
rupt — a bankrupt in heart and happi- 


ness ? How can you weigh wealth and 
position against the best good than can 
ever come to either of us.? I am not 
afraid of poverty, for I have known 
nothing else ; and surely you do not 
dread it for yourself. This love is the 
one good thing which God has permit- 
ted in my pitiless destiny. Am I unwo- 
manly .? Tf I plead for my life, who can 
blame me? And shall that which is 
more than life go from me without a 
word ? Oh, I cannot smile and look 
cold as though I was not hurt: I am 
pierced and torn. Yet, Christian, for 
your sake, rather than for mine, I en- 
treat. You would bring desolation into 
both our lives. I might endure it, but 
how could you bear through the years 
the memory of your deed? You are 
trampling on your manhood. You are 
giving to this woman’s hungry heart a 
stone : you are buying with a lie the 
holiest thing in her womanhood.” 

“For four generations my house has 
withstood every financial storm. The 
honorable name which my ancestors 
bequeathed to me I will maintain at 
every hazard,” Christian replied with 
gloomy energy. 

“And you will marry Miss Jerome ?” 

“Yes : it is my only hope.” 

“Then God help you, Christian. Your 
lot is harder than mine. At the worst, 
my life shall be true : I shall hide no hei 
in my heart, to fester there.” Her words, 
begun in tenderness, ended in a tone of 
scorn. “And now I must ask you to 
see me home.” 

She left the room, and soon returned 
cloaked and hooded, to find Christian 
waiting in overcoat and gloves and with 
hat in hand. With her arm in his they 
walked in perfect silence through the 
gay, bustling streets, passing God knows 
how many other spirits as sad as their 
own. When they came to the humble 
little house which was Mary’s home, 
Christian stopped on the step as though 
he would say something, but Mary said 
“Good-night,” and passed into the hall. 

We magazine- writers have no chance 
in the space allotted to a short story for 
a quantitative analysis of emotions and 
situations, or for following the processes 


HER CHANCE. 


75 


by which marked changes come about 
in the human heart. We must content 
ourselves with informing the reader that 
certain changes or modifications ensued, 
trusting that he will receive the state- 
ment .without requiring reasgns or the 
7nodu5 operandi. 

For a time it seemed to Mary Trigill- 
gus that the sun would never shine for 
her again, but a certain admixture in 
her feeling of scorn and contempt for 
Christian prevented her from sinking 
into a total despondency. As she re- 
volved day after day the strange sepa- 
ration of two lives which should have 
flowed on together, there grew in her 
heart a kind of bitterness toward the 
society which had demanded the sepa- 
ration. And then the diffused bitterness 
gathered, and was concentrated on the 
woman and the man who had robbed 
her of her happiness. Especially did 
her heart rise against Christian Van 
Pelt. Gold had won him from her : he 
had made his choice between gold and 
her love ; and then she would chafe 
against the poverty which from her 
earliest recollection had fettered her 
tastes and aspirations, and at every step 
had been her humiliation. And then 
she would feel a wild, unreasoning long- 
ing to win gold. What a triumph to 
'earn gold beyond what his wife had 
brought him — beyond what they would 
together possess ! From the time this 
thought first occurred to her it never left 
her except for brief intervals. Day after 
day, hour after hour, it recurred to her, 
until she became possessed with it. It 
was in her dreams by night, and with 
the day she seized and revolved it, until 
her brain whirled with delirium. A hun- 
dred wild schemes and projects came 
and went in scurrying confusion. With 
hungry eyes she read the daily adver- 
tisements of “ Business Chances,” ” Part- 
ners Wanted,” etc., and in answering 
some of these was led into some- strange 
discoveries and adventures. 

“I am mad! I am losing my reason 1 
More gold than their millions I I can- 
not even make a living for myself, 
lunatic!” she would say; and straight- 
way in fancy would read in the papers 


the announcement of a fortune being 
left to Mary Trigillgus — of great and 
marvelous riches coming to her — and 
would thrill with her triumph over Chris- 
tian Van Pelt. She would even pen 
these announcements to see how they 
looked, and read them aloud to study 
their sound. 

Mrs. Trigillgus grew alarmed at her 
daughter’s unaccountable moods. A 
physician was summoned, who decided 
that she was overworked, and advised a 
few months in the country. But Mary 
refused to leave the city, and continued 
to search for her “chance.” 

One day she was reading the New 
York Tribime, when her eye caught a 
little paragraph in relation to the eclipse 
of the sun which was to occur on the 
twentieth of August, and of the prepa- 
rations that were being made in the 
scientific world for its observance — of 
the universal interest it was exciting, 
etc. etc. 

Mary thought of the amount of smoked 
glass which would be prepared for the 
day, then of the soiled fingers, then of 
a remedy for this, and then — her chance 
flashed upon her. 

For a time she sat there, with kindled 
eyes, with throbbing heart and brain, 
revolving and shaping her thought. 
Then she put on her hat and took the 
omnibus for Mr. Ten Eyck’s office. 

“Mr. Ten Eyck,” she said, after the 
customary commonplace*, “you once 
said that you would be glad to serve my 
mother. Are you as willing to serve her 
daughter ?” 

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Ten Eyck, 
growing a little uneasy; “that is, if I 
can, you understand.” 

“ I have urgent need for money.” 

Mr. Ten Eyck began to fidget visibly. 

“I own a house and lot on Thirty- 
second street. How much money can 
you lend me on it ? It is a house of 
seven rooms.” 

" I know the house,” answered Mr. 
Ten Eyck. “Your mother’s father left 
it to you. There is no encumbrance on 
it ?” 

“None.” 

“ Allow me to suggest. Miss Trigillgus, 


76 


HER CHANCE. 


as your mother’s old friend, that this step 
should be well considered before it is 
decided upon. The necessity should be 
very urgent before you mortgage your 
home. As your mother’s old friend, 
may I inquire how you intend using this 
money ? Do not answer me if you have 
any hesitancy in giving me your confi- 
dence.” 

The old gentleman looked at her with 
such kindly, fatherly solicitude that, after 
a moment of confused hesitation, she 
answered: “I will give the confidence 
you invite, Mr. Ten Eyck. I have a 
plan by which I can make a fortune in 
a few days. I propose to manufacture 
glasses for the great eclipse — say three 
millions of eclipse-glasses — and distrib- 
ute them throughout the United States 
and the Canadas.” 

Mr. Ten Eyck stared at her through 
his golden-bowed glasses: ‘‘What kind 
of glasses ? Explain yourself more fully.” 

‘‘ I shall buy up all the common glass 
in New York and Pittsburg, and in other 
cities perhaps, at the lowest possible fig- 
ure. Much of the refuse glass will an- 
swer my purpose. I shall have it cut 
three inches by five, stain it, put two 
stained surfaces together, and bind with 
paper. At ten cents apiece the gross pro- 
ceeds of three millions will be three hun- 
dred thousand dollars.” 

‘‘And how will you distribute them ?” 

‘‘Through the news agents,” she an- 
swered promptly, ‘‘and on the same 
terms at which they push the newspa- 
pers. By this great system I shall se- 
cure a simultaneous distribution through- 
out the whole country.” 

Mr. Ten Eyck had laid off his glasses 
and assumed an attitude of deep atten- 
tion : ‘‘ Suppose it should rain on eclipse- 
day ?” 

‘‘ I have thought of that contingency. 
I should anticipate it by having the glasses 
in the market for two or three days pre- 
ceding the eclipse. To give the glass 
additional value, I should paste on it a 
printed slip stating the hour when the 
eclipse will begin, the period of its dura- 
tion, and the moment of total obscura- 
tion.” Then she started and glowed 
with a sudden revelation that came 


flashing through her brain. ‘‘ I will make 
the glasses an advertising medium,” she 
continued eagerly. ‘‘I will make the 
advertisements pay all the expenses, 
and much more. Can I not find a man 
in New Yprk City, or somewhere in the 
United States, who would pay a hundred 
thousand dollars to have three millions 
of people reading in one moment the 
merits of his wares or of his remedies ! 
And if such a man cannot be found, one 
who will purchase the exclusive right 
to advertise with me. I’ll parcel it out. 
Yes, I can pay all expenses with the ad- 
vertisements ; but I must have some 
ready money to begin with — to initiate 
the enterprise. Will you lend me the 
money on my house and lot ?” 

Mr. Ten Eyck resumed his glasses, 
and sat for a long time staring into a 
pigeon-hole of his desk in profound 
meditation. 

‘‘ My dear Miss Trigillgus, allow me, 
as your mother’s old friend, to speak 
plainly to you. You are planning an 
enterprise of such proportions that no 
woman could go through with it. In the 
most skillful hands great risk would at- 
tend it, even with abundance of money 
to back it ; and let me assure you that a 
woman without business education and 
with cramped means could have no 
chance whatever in the arena of experts. 
Her defeat would be inevitable. I would 
gladly serve you. Miss Trigillgus, and I 
think, pardon me, that my surest way 
of doing this is to decline making the 
loan you ask, and to advise you, as your 
mother’s old friend, to abandon this 
scheme.” 

“ I shall consider your advice, Mr. 
Ten Eyck,” said Miss Trigillgus, ‘‘and 
I thank you for it, whether I act upon it 
or not;” and she gave a cold bow that 
contradicted her words. 

Mary made many other attempts to 
raise money, but all were unsuccessful. 
A few mornings after this her advertise- 
ment appeared in the Tribune, calling 
for a partner with ten thousand dollars 
to take a half interest in an enterprise 
which was sure to net a quarter of a 
million within a month. It had such an 
extravagant sound that it was set down 


HER CHANCE. 


77 


as a humbug, and few answered it. 
She haddnterviews with.two young men 
of such suspicious appearance that she 
did not dare reveal her scheme to them. 
Day after day the card appeared with 
no satisfactory result; and Mary per- 
ceived with a kind of frenzy the short 
time in which her great work was to be 
accomplished growing shorter and short- 
er. She moved cautiously, lest her grand 
idea should be appropriated, but she left 
no stone unturned for raising the money. 
Finally, on the ninth of August, impa- 
tient, anxious, nervous, she had six 
thousand dollars in hand, and only ten 
days intervened before the day of the 
eclipse. She went immediately to an 
eminent solicitor of patents, who had 
influence at Washington, and made ap- 
plication for a patent for advertising on 
eclipse -glasses. The solicitor thought 
there was no doubt but that the patent 
could be secured, so that she might free- 
ly proceed with her enterprise. She 
next contracted with a glass-factory for 
five thousand dollars’ worth of glass, 
and engaged one hundred men to cut 
and stain it and put up the eclipse- 
glasses. Then she made several en- 
deavors to see the president of the news 
agency, and after repeated failures she 
opened a correspondence by letter with 
him, briefly outlining her plan, and ask- 
ing him to undertake through the news 
agents the distribution of the glasses. 
The next morning she received in re- 
sponse, through the post-office, these 
lines : 

“Miss Trigillgus : You have been 
anticipated in your enterprise. We are 
engaged to distribute eclipse-glasses for 
another party.” 

As Mary read the cruel words that 
ended all her hopes, she fell lifeless to 
the floor, and was thus discovered by 
her mother. 

The following day there came a con- 
firmatory note from the solicitor of pat- 
ents, stating that she had been antici- 
pated also in her application for a patent. 

From this period Mary’s moods be- 
came indescribable. From a state of 
unrelieved despondency she issued so 


merry, in such exhilaration, that her 
mother was glad to welcome back the 
shadowed mood which soon succeeded. 
The sagacity of physicians, of her most 
familiar acquaintances, of her mother, 
was all at fault. No one could decide 
whether or not her mind was unhinged, 
whether or not Mary Trigillgus was in- 
sane ; for it must be remembered that 
her friends were ignorant of the events 
we have been narrating — her love for 
Christian Van Pelt, her disappointment, 
her grand scheme, the sacrifice of her 
home and the failure of her enterprise. 

The nineteenth of August came, the 
day preceding the grand event of the 
century. Mary Trigillgus and her moth- 
er were lingering at the breakfast-table. 
The girl seemed wild and hawk-like, 
startling her mother with her unnatural 
merriment, commenting with weird bril- 
liancy and grotesqueness and sparkle 
on the various items as Mrs. Trigillgus 
read them. At length she read a para- 
graph about the eclipse. ‘“And we 
would advise every reader,’ ” she con- 
tinued, “‘to furnish himself with an 
eclipse-glass, which he can procure at 
any of the news depots for the sum of ten 
cents. The glass is nicely finished, and 
is very perfect for the purpose intend- 
ed. We understand that five millions 
of these glasses have been put into the 
market, for which the country is indebt- 
ed to the genius and enterprise of our 
young fellow-citizen, Mr. Christian Van 
Pelt, assisted by Mr. W. V. Ten Eyck.’ ” 

“He has done it ! he has again stabbed 
me !” cried Mary Trigillgus, with the 
maniac’s glare in her eyes. “The gold 
is his — his and hers ! Piles of gold ! 
and they have cut it out of my heart, 
dug it out of my brain ! I have nothing 
left ! Don’t you see, mother, I am only 
an empty shell? Stab me here in the 
heart, where he has stabbed me : it won’t 
hurt. There’s nothing there ! nothing ! 
it’s all 'hollow.” There was no longer 
any doubt that Mary Trigillgus’s mind 
was unhinged. 

During all that day men and children 
were crying the eclipse-glasses in the 
street, selling them at every door. 

“Hear them! hear them!” the poor 


78 


HER CHAECE. 


maniac would cry. “They are selling 
millions of them ! they are piling the 
gold all about him and her ! They are to 
have a palace of gold, and Mary’s to have 
only the ashes. Poor Mary ! poor Mary ! 
All the good’s for them, all the pain’s for 
Mary !’’ and then she would weep her- 
self into a quiet mood of despondency. 

The next day, the day of the eclipse, 
Mary demanded one of the glasses, and 
would not be diverted from her desire. 
She read the advertisement on the 
eclipse - glass : “Babcock’s Fire-Extin- 
guisher will put out any fire ! Get one !’’ 

“ Mother, get me one : I have a fire 
here ;’’ and she pressed her hand to her 
brow. She examined the glass again 
and again, looking it over and over, and 
reading the advertisement aloud : “ Bab- 
cock’s Fire-Extinguisher will put out any 
fire ! Get one !’’ All day long, at short 


intervals, she was running to the window 
and looking through the glass at the sun. 

And when the grand hour arrived for 
the wonderful phenomenon, when the 
five million glasses were raised to witness 
the obscuration, and the weird twilight 
had settled over all nature, this young 
life too had passed into a total eclipse, 
from which it has never for a moment 
emerged. 

The poor lunatic never rages. She is 
sweet and harmless as a child. She 
makes frequent visits to the glass-fac- 
tories and to the news-rooms to inquire 
after the progress of her enterprise, and 
over and over again makes her contract 
to advertise the “ Babcock Fire-Extin- 
guisher,’’ and comes back with promises 
to her mother of the boundless riches 
which are to flow in upon them. 


MR. TWITCHELL’S INVENTIONS. 


“ IV /T ANDY, where can I find a clean 
iVl shirt?’’ 

Mr. Twitchell had been overtaken on 
his way home by a sudden summer- 
shower. He was bewildered by the un- 
expected discomfort in which he found 
himself. 

Mrs. Twitchell’s popgun reply was 
not at all nerve-calming : “ Down in the 
cellar, or up in the attic, or under the 
bed, or in the parlor on the centre-table.’’ 

There was a short pause for reloading, 
during which Mrs. Twitchell looked like 
a personified exclamation-point. 

Mrs. Twitchell continued the popping : 
“You always ask that question, as if I 
were in the habit of hiding your shirts 
from you, or as if I had no system or 
order, so that your shirts might be here 
and there, and anywhere and every- 
where. Your shirts have never, since 
the day we were married, been put any- 
where but in the second drawer of the 
mahogany bureau; and I have told you 
so a thousand times.’’ 


In the mean time, Mr. Twitchell had 
been sauntering awkwardly and un- 
easily between the washstand and the 
bureau. Catching at the information 
in his wife’s words, he hastily opened a 
drawer, and stood gazing with a helpless, 
bewildered air into the profound of laces, 
ruffles and ribbons. Mrs. Twitchell, 
without turning her head, was watching 
him out of the corners of her eyes. She 
was a masked battery of adjectives, 
ready to open fire when the enemy 
should be fairly exposed. Beyond the 
laces and ruffles Mr. Twitchell caught 
sight of a sleeve : that must be the shirt ! 
Cautiously he advanced his fingers. 
You would have thought he was getting 
ready to snatch something from a fiery 
furnace. Through the half-opened draw- 
er the awkward hand soon emerged, 
dragging by one sleeve Mrs. Twitchell’s 
white muslin waist, and with it laces, 
ribbons and ruffles. 

Now was the wife’s opportunity : 
“There! you clumsy creature! you’ve 


MR. TWITCHELLS INVENTIONS. 


79 


done it now !” She fastened with a rap- 
id, dexterous movement the glancing 
needle in the handkerchief she was hem- 
ming, with a quick snap removed the 
thimble from her finger and set it on the 
window-sill out of Baby’s reach, and 
hastened to the rescue. “Get away, 
blunderer : there’s no use trying to teach 
you anything. You are as helpless as 
the baby, and give ten times more both- 
er. If you’d got into this drawer and 
danced, you couldn’t have done more 
mischief. This is drawer : your 
shirts have never, since the Creation, 
been in this drawer.’’ 

“Well now, Mandy, I’m sure you said 
in the second drawer — ’’ 

“Of the makogany" (syllables pro- 
nounced staccato) “bureau. Look at this 
bureau : is it mahogany ? I dare say 
you never knew before that it’s walnut.’’ 

Mr. Twitchell was whipped, but he 
accepted his defeat good-humoredly, for 
he had some good news which he was 
as anxious to get rid of as of his damp 
clothes. So he sat looking on with a 
quiet air as his brisk, nervous little wife 
refolded her muslin waist and returned 
the ribbons and ruffles to their places. 
This being done, she reseated herself at 
her sewing, rocking back and forth, her 
needle clicking impatiently against the 
thimble, while now and then she snap- 
ped the thread between her teeth. “ He 
may wait on himself!’’ she muttered. 

But Mr. Twitchell was aching to com- 
municate the good news to his wife : he 
had no idea of keeping up the quarrel. 
“Oh come, Mandy,’’ he said, coaxingly, 
“ get my shirt for me.’’ 

“Why can’t you get it?’’ asked the 
wife, turning her sharp brown eyes upon 
him. “ You are sitting there doing 
nothing. You expect me to do the sew- 
ing of the family, and take care of the 
children and house, and wait on you be- 
sides. I’ve spoiled you: I’ve just made 
a slave of myself for you ; and you — you 
can’t do a little errand for me.’’ 

“ Why, my dear, I am always ready 
to do anything for you.’’ 

“ It looks so. Why couldn’t you send 
me that salt, as I asked you to ? Here I 
was waiting and waiting for it : I got the 


cream all ready, paid a' quarter for a 
quart of cream, and got it into the freezer, 
and then waited and waited for the salt. 
But I might have known I couldn’t de- 
pend on you, though I told you over and 
over, and you promised and promised. 
And I took a double quantity of ice this 
morning, too, and that’ll just be wasted. 
And I promised that poor sick minister 
that I’d send him some ice-cream for his 
dinner, and he dotes so on my cream. 
And what do you suppose he’ll think 
of us ? Oh how I hate such doings I It 
looks so shiftless, so unreliable, to prom- 
ise a thing and then not do it ! I’m a 
woman of my word. If I promise a 
thing. I’ll do it, or die trying ; but you — ’’ 

Mrs. Twitchell suddenly stopped, as 
though words failed her. But Mr. 
Twitchell was in a good humor with 
the world and himself. There was a 
knowing look in his smile as he said, 
“ I forgot the salt, I own, for I was ab- 
sorbed — ’’ 

“Yes, that’s it: you’re always absorb- 
ed. If you’d get unabsorbed, and mix 
more with people, and make yourself 
more popular, your family might be 
obliged to you. But you go a-mancing 
and a-trancing through the world, and 
Goodness knows what’d become of you 
if you didn’t have my eyes to see for 
you, and my ears to hear for you, and 
my head to plan for you.’’ 

“Don’t fret yourself, my dear: your 
good-for-nothing husband will yet make 
a living for you. I’ve just invented 
something that’ll make our fortunes. 
Doctor Hollister says its worth a hun- 
dred thousand dollars to me. He’s de- 
lighted with it.’’ 

Mrs. Twitchell’s chair stopped rock- 
ing : her hands and work dropped in 
her lap : she looked at her husband 
with astonished and eager eyes. “In- 
vented something ! What ?’’ 

“ I’ve invented a pump, which I in- 
tend to call the ‘ Rural Fountain,’ or the 
‘Perpetual Stock Fountain’ — 1 haven’t 
decided which.’’ 

“Is that 'all?’’ Mrs. Twitchell was 
disappointed : she was expecting I don’t 
know what announcement — neither did 
she know. 


8o 


MR. TWITCHELUS INVENTIONS. 


“ ' All !’ Wait till you hear about it. 
Here is a drawing of my invention 
and he produced a card from his pocket 
and began explaining the diagram. 
“ The pump is to be wound up like a 
clock, so that it will run as long as a 
body wants it to, so that cattle won’t 
have to bfe waited on to water like ba- 
bies. It’s to be applied to wells where 
the supply is inexhaustible' and the 
waste of no consequence.” There was 
a talk of wheels and springs and levers 
and valves, etc., very bewildering to 
Mrs. Twitchell’s brain, but she never- 
theless said, ‘‘Yes, yes! I see, I see,” 
in answer to the inventor’s inquiries and 
explanations. 

‘‘Well, what do you think of it?” 

‘‘ I don’t know. I don’t think I quite 
understand it.” 

‘‘Oh, women have no heads for me- 
chanics and machinery : a woman never 
invented anything. I’ll make a model 
of the pump, and then you’ll understand 
it. Where are those pine blocks Sissy 
had here last night ?” 

‘‘ But first, dear, you’d better get wash- 
ed and get your shirt changed ; you 
might take cold and going to the sec- 
ond drawer of the mahogany bureau, 
she took out a shirt and collar and laid 
them on the bed. She was now in one 
of her pleasant moods. Not satisfied 
with her usual service, she half filled 
the bowl with water, and. hung a couple 
of her red-bordered company towels on 
the rack. Mr. Twitchell was no longer 
a mancing, trancing, good-for-nothing : 
he was an inventor, holding the key to 
a hundred thousand dollars. While he 
was changing his linen, Mrs. Twitchell 
went in search of the pine blocks. 

‘‘Well, now, where’s your knife, Man- 
dy ? — I’ve mislaid mine.” Mr. Twitch- 
ell’s knife was usually mislaid. 

Mrs. Twitchell brought forth from the 
pocket of her neat apron a white-hand- 
led knife with a half blade in it, and the' 
inventor began whittling at the blocks. 
The wife very quietly spread a couple 
of newspapers by his chair to catch the 
splints and shavings, without feeling any 
inclination to administer the customary 
scolding about the litter. Then, with 


,her sewing in her hand, her mind busied 
itself with the hundred thousand dollars 
which the new pump was to bring. She 
thought of her sister Margaret with her 
family of little children, and of her aunt 
Kemble with her half-idiot Willie. ‘‘ Mar- 
garet shall have a snug little house of 
her own, and I’ll send the children some 
flannels and warm cloaks for the winter. 
I’ll pay off the mortgage on aunt’s place, 
and poor Willie shall have the drum 
he’s teasing for. I’ll get a new carpet 
for the minister’s study, and Sissy’s talent 
shall be cultivated : she shall study in 
Italy, and — ” 

‘‘ I wish I could have a little piece of 
wire,” the inventor interrupted. 

Mrs. Twitchell produced from a calico 
bag a twist of bonnet-wire, tied with a 
soiled blue ribbon. 

‘‘Well, that is hardly stiff enough: 
haven’t you something else ?” 

‘‘ I can give you a piece of steel from 
a hoop-skirt.” 

‘‘Well, that will do.” 

Mrs. Twitchell lifted her skirts, dis- 
playing a dilapidated-looking hoop. ‘‘ If 
we ever do get the hundred thousand 
dollars. I’ll have a new skirt,” she said. 

One of the numerous ends pressing 
outward she broke off, and stripping the 
covering from it gave it into the invent- 
or’s hands, and then went on handker- 
chief-hemming, and dreaming that some 
day Mr. James Parton would write an ac- 
count of the ‘‘Twitchell Perpetual Stock 
Fountain,” and would state the interest- 
ing fact that a portion of Mrs. Twitcftell’s 
hoop-skirt entered into the consti action 
of the first model. 

‘‘Well, now you’ll understand it,” said 
the inventor, holding up his model for 
his wife’s inspection ; and after a little 
explanation she did understand it. It 
seemed so simple, and so perfect in its 
working and structure, that she began to 
think the hundred thousand dollars were 
a certainty, especially as Mr. Twitchell 
announced that his friend Doctor Hol- 
lister had already made the application 
for a patent. 

’Twas weary waiting for the decision 
from Washington. ‘‘It’s a shame,” said 
Mrs. Twitchell, ‘‘that we have to wait 


MR, TWITCHELnS INVENTIONS. 


8l 


so, when we might be making money by 
the pump, and taking the comfort of the 
money ! Here it is nearly Christmas, 
and I had thought that I should be able 
to send Margaret’s children a nice Christ- 
mas-box, and poor Willie a drum. And 
I want Sissy to begin to take drawing- 
lessons. I don’t believe you know what 
a talent that child has for drawing. Why, 
she just draws everything, and she’s per- 
fectly happy if she can get a pencil and 
paper.” 

‘‘So is any child. They all like to 
mark and scribble. When I was a boy 
my grandmother — ” 

‘‘ But Sissy’s faculty is something very 
uncommon : it’s very remarkable. Why, 
if I set her to paring apples or potatoes, 
she cuts girls and boys and dogs and all 
sorts of things ; and she moulds dough 
into every conceivable shape. You 
needn’t laugh. Why, that child cuts her 
meat into figures, and bites her bread- 
and-butter into the shapes of birds and 
beasts. The other day I saw her work- 
ing away at her mashed potato until she 
got it to looking exactly like a terrapin. 
I’m determined to have her go to Italy 
and study art there. And that is the 
principal reason why I rejoice at our 
prospect of wealth.” 

Three months after this Mr. Twitchell 
came home with a formidable-looking 
document. 

‘‘They have denied me a patent,” he 
said abruptly. 

Mrs. Twitchell dropped her dishcloth 
as suddenly as though a cannon-ball 
had taken off both her arms : she gazed 
in stupefaction at her husband : ‘‘ What 
a loss ! what a loss ! — a hundred thou- 
sand dollars ! What shall we do ?” 

‘‘ Oh, I had long ago given up making 
anything on the pump,” replied the in- 
ventor with such evident nonchalance 
that Mrs. Twitchell’s dismay changed to 
indignation. ‘‘ Some months ago, I con- 
sulted Mr. Truscott, who is the most 
scientific mechanic here, about applying 
my invention to oil-springs as well as 
to stock-wells, and he said then that it 
would take a pretty good supply of stock 
to keep it wound up. He satisfied me 
that the thing was impracticable, and 
6 


Doctor Hollister ought to have known 
it.” 

“Well, why couldn’t you tell me this 
before ? If I had known it I shouldn’t 
have bought the brown empress cloth, 
though I hadn’t a single decent dress, 
and Sissy should have done without her 
furs, though the child was actually suffer- 
ing from the want of them. And she’ll 
have to .give up her drawing-lessons ! 
We’ll just have to pinch in every possi- 
ble way, to make up for the money sent 
to the Patent Office, and for that two 
hundred dollars that you let that rascal- 
ly Robertson cheat you out of. And 
I’ve gone and written to Margaret and 
Aunt Kemble that we had hopes, and 
that I intended to help them ; and I’ve 
positively promised Willie the drum.” 

“ Well, dear, never cry over spilt milk, 
but find my slippers for me.” 

“ I can’t spend my time waiting on 
you : I’ve got to work now harder than 
ever ;” and she picked up the forgotten 
dish-towel from the floor. 

“Well, I’ve got another invention — 
one that will pay. I’ve got a certain 
thing on this.” 

Mrs. Twitchell’s hopes went up to a 
surprising height, considering that she 
was a rather practical woman. But then 
she was very ignorant of the history of 
inventions. Again she thought of her 
sister Margaret and her aunt Kemble, 
and of Sissy’s art-studies. She was sor- 
ry she had refused to get the slippers, 
and while inquiring what this second in- 
vention was, quietly brought them. 

“It’s a fly-trap — the simplest and most 
ingenious thing. Doctor Hollister says, 
that he has ever seen.” 

“You can’t make anything worth while 
on such an insignificant thing as a fly- 
trap.” 

“ Little things are the very things one 
can make money on, because, you see, 
it’s so easy to introduce them.” 

“ But perhaps you’ll fail to get a patent 
on it.” 

“ Hollister says there’s no doubt about 
the patent : he’s already making out the 
application. Hotchkiss is manufactur- 
ing some samples, and I mean to start 
right out to selling them and to selling 


82 


M/!. TWITCHELUS INVENTIONS, 


rights. I’ll bring you one to-morrow, 
and you’ll soon clear the whole house 
of flies.” 

‘‘ It’ll be a comfort to do that. They 
rise in such swarms whenever I go in 
the pantry that I really believe if I 
should throw up a pint cup, I’d catch 
a quart.” 

“A quart in a pint cup! Well, this 
trap’ll just gobble them all up.” 

The next morning a fly-trap was set 
on Mrs. Tvvitchell’s kitchen table, much 
to Baby’s delight, and Sissy was set to 
tend it. 

‘‘You needn’t expect to make any for- 
tune on that fly-trap,” said Mrs. Twitch- 
ell that night. ‘‘ It’s caught only three 
flies this whole day, and the baby has 
poked my sleeve-buttons into it, so that 
you’ll have to take it all to pieces to get 
them out.” 

‘‘ You haven’t kept it baited, as I told 
you.” 

‘‘Yes, I have, and Sissy’s reversed it 
every ten minutes.” 

‘‘Well, now, your meddling has scared 
the flies away. I’ll try it myself to-mor- 
row, and see if I can’t make it work.” 

“ I’m glad I found it out before apply- 
ing for a patent,” said the inventor the 
next day. ‘‘ It don't catch the flies.” 

‘‘ Poor Sissy !” ejaculated his wife. 

“But,” he went on without noticing 
the interruption, ” I’ve got another in- 
vention — a capital thing. Doctor Hollis- 
ter says.” 

The spring of Mrs. Twitchell’s hopes 
was impaired by much wear, but she 
nevertheless found her mind wandering 
to Sister Margaret, Aunt Kemble and 
Italy. 

‘‘You see, I was yesterday watching 
Baby as she was trying to walk, and my 
mind got to running on the thing, and 
this morning, as I lay in bed, I invented 
a baby-walker. There is to be a pyra- 
mid of hoops that go on rollers, and the 
top one grasps the child.” 

‘‘Why, I saw a picture of just such a 
one in an advertisement.” 

‘‘You didn’t ?” 

‘‘Yes, I did — in the Cincinnati Com- 
viercial." 

‘‘When?” 


‘‘A few weeks ago.” 

‘‘ You are sure ?” 

‘‘Yes, for I remember thinking that I 
might have had one for Baby if you 
hadn’t lost that money at the Patent 
Office, and hadn’t spent so much in 
getting those fly-traps made.” 

“Oh don’t, Mandy, worry any more 
about that money. I’ll strike a vein yet. 
The more I think about it, the more I’m 
satisfied I have a talent for invention. 
There are a number of things running 
in my head now. One plan is to warm 
cars by the heat generated by the fric- 
tion in their motion. I haven’t got it 
quite worked out yet, but I’ll get it clear- 
ed up after a while. There is too much 
waste in the forces of Nature. We 
ought to economize these forces. The 
sunlight, for instance — we ought to store 
its force for future use. I’ve been ex- 
perimenting in chemistry some. I think 
a cheap method might be contrived for 
separating the salt from sea-water, so as 
to make it drinkable. How often do 
whole crews perish at sea for want of 
water I The discovery of an easy meth- 
od of freshening sea-water would make 
my everlasting fortune.” 

“Well, I hope you’ll make money 
enough to pay these everlasting bills. 
We are running behind terribly, with 
the money you lost by that sneak Rob- 
ertson, and by the Perpetual Stock 
Fountain and the fly-traps. And that 
empress cloth isn’t paid for yet, and I’ll 
never wear it until it is.” 

“The settling of the bills of this fam- 
ily is my business, and I should be glad 
if you’d keep your nose out of it and 
Mr. Twitchell seized his hat and rushed 
from the house, leaving Mrs. Twitchell 
nearer a defeat than she had ever known 
herself, for never before had she failed 
to get the last word. And the thought 
that he had secured the last word against 
such a tongue as Mrs. Twitchell’s made 
the gentleman feel quite like a hero, and 
soon put him in a good humor. 

“ I’ll tell you a thing I’ve been work- 
ing at,” he said the next morning at the 
breakfast-table, oblivious of the fact that 
he hadn’t helped anybody except him- 
self to the scrambled egg. 


MR. TWITCHELU S INVENTIONS. 


“Papa never helps me to anything,” 
said Sissy. 

“ It is,” pursued Mr. Twitchell, uncon- 
scious of the interruption, “ to discover 
a cheap and effectual method of charg- 
ing or impregnating timber.” 

Mrs. Twitchell continued her coffee- 
pouring, wondering what the man was 
after now, and, from a kind of habit, 
running over in her mind her plans con- 
cerning Sister Margaret, Aunt Kemble 
and Sissy. 

“For a long time efforts have been 
made to saturate timber with antiseptic 
solutions, to prevent their decay. Bou- 
cherie’s method is the best, and is much 
used, but I’m on the track of something 
better.” 

“Well, Tm tired of hearing of your 
ideas : they won’t feed us or clothe us. 
You’d better go to work. I don’t see 
how we’re ever to catch up — all that 
hard-earned money gone to enrich that 
villain Robertson, and those office-hold- 
ers at Washington, and that patent fel- 
low Hollister, while I and my children 
have to deny ourselves everything !” 

“The money’ll come some day — I 
know it will.” 

“ The ‘ somfe day ’ will be too late to 
do us any good, if it should ever come. 
Sissy’s talents will have rusted out, will 
be past cultivation ; Aunt Kemble will 
be in her grave; and Margaret’s chil- 
dren will have grown into irreclaimable 
ignoramuses.” 

A few months after this, Mr. Twitchell 
came in with a hurried air : “ I want you 
to pack my satchel, Mandy: I expect 
to be gone some weeks.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to take a ride through the 
country.” 

“Well, I’d like to know what this is 
for: what tomfoolery have you got in 
your head now ? You’ll go and spend 
ever-so-much money, and we shall get 
farther behind than ever.” 

“Well, my dear, I know what I’m 
about; so please pack my satchel.” 

“You can do it better, as you know 
where you’re going, and what for, and 
what you’ll need.” 

"Come, Mandy, don’t be cross, just 


83 

as I’m going away. Perhaps I shall 
strike some lucky mine.” 

“Oh, do stop this talk about luck. 
There’s no luck for you : if any man 
ever was born to bad luck, you’re the 
man. So, if you’re going off to look for 
luck, you’re going on a fool’s errand: 
that’s all I’ve got to say.” 

“ Well, you’ve said it, and now get my 
satchel ready,, for the buggy’ll be here 
in twenty minutes, and I must have a 
lunch.” 

“ This caps the climax ! Poor little 
Sissy ! She might as well have been 
born a fool.” 

Where has he gone ? what is he about ? 
These questions were' ever in Mrs. 
Twitchell’s mind, and very often in the 
minds and on the tongues of her ac- 
quaintances. Mrs. Proudfoot, her next- 
door neighbor, was particularly uneasy. 
From her front chamber window she 
had seen Mr. Twitchell drive off in a 
new buggy : she had interrogated Sissy. 
Sissy had answered, “ He wouldn’t tell 
mother where he was going.” So, after 
interchanging conjectures with the sher- 
iff’s wife, her neighbor on the left, and 
with Mrs. Shaffer, in the cottage over 
the way, and with Miss Slimmings, the 
minister’s wife’s sister, Mrs. Proudfoot 
one afternoon took her sewing in to Mrs. 
Twitchell’s, on a tour of investigation: 
“I thought you must be very lonely, 
Mrs. Twitchell, so I’ve brought in my 
sewing to sit an hour with you. I had 
to steal away from Baby : he’s teething, 
and is very exacting.” 

Mrs. Twitchell suspected that her ami- 
able neighbor’s errand was to interview 
her on the subject of her husband’s ab- 
sence: “You are kind. I hope, how- 
ever, that you will not inconvenience 
yourself or your baby on my account. 
I have so much to do that I haven’t time 
to be lonely.” 

Mrs. Proudfoot was delighted : she 
was brought directly and naturally to 
her point : “ Sure enough, you must be 
very busy without Mr. Twitchell to help 
you. He must have had important busi- 
ness, or he would not have left you all 
alone to take care of the house, and the 
children, and the cow, and everything.” 


84 


MR. TWITCHELDS INVENTIONS. 


\ 


‘‘Oh, I get along quite comfortably. 
I have Sissy to help me, and when 
there’s no man about, there’s less cook- 
ing and less work generally to be done.” 

‘‘ How long will he be gone ?” 

‘‘ Some weeks, perhaps.” 

‘‘ It seems so odd in these days to have 
a man start off on a journey in a buggy ; 
but perhaps there’s no railroad to — I 
forget where you said he’d gone.” Mrs. 
Proudfoot looked very indifferent. 

‘‘ I did not state where he’d gone.” 

‘‘ Oh, didn’t you ? Then I heard it 
from some one else. Let me see : where 
did I hear he’d gone ? Come to think 
of it, Pve heard ever so many different 
reports about it. One says one thing, 
and another says another.” 

Mrs. Twitchell’s shell of reserve un- 
closed somewhat. She heartily wished 
to hear what people were saying on this 
subject. ‘‘Where do they say he has 
gone ?” 

‘‘Well, Mrs. Shaffer told me that her 
husband heard that Mr. Twitchell had 
gone off into the villages around to ped- 
dle some kind of traps that he’d invented 
— bedbug traps, I think. But Sam Hem- 
ingway says that your husband gave up 
the traps a long time ago, and that he’s 
gone off to work some plan for econo- 
mizing the forces of — the universe, I 
think he said. And somebody else 
says — Oh, well, you’ll think I’m un- 
kind to tell you things I’ve heard.” 

‘‘I don’t mind their talk, but I’d just 
like to know what it is.” 

‘‘People are so ready to think and say 
unkind things! I’ve been so mad at 
some things I’ve heard that I didn’t 
know what to do.” 

‘‘Well, what have you heard ?” 

‘‘Well, I really think you ought to 
know what Miss — But I won’t men- 
tion names — I never do ; but it’s some- 
body you’ve always considered one of 
your warmest friends ; and she ought to 
know enough to hold her tongue, for the 
sake of her brother-in-law. And now I 
might as well tell you who it is, for of 
course you know it’s Miss Slimmings. 
But for pity’s sake don’t ever mention 
that I told you ; but she said that Mr. 
Twitchell had to go out peddling baby- 


jumpers because of your extravagance. 
Then she went on to say that you had 
bought an empress cloth, and furs for 
Sissy, and had put Sissy to taking draw- ^ 
ing-lessons, and had sent your sister a 
Christmas-box, and your aunt’s idiot boy 
an accordion, and had bought your baby 
a drum, and I don’t know what besides.” 

‘‘It passes everything that anybody 
should say I’m extravagant 1” 

‘‘Oh, that’s amiable compared with 
some of their talk. I heard one gentle- 
man say that Mr. Twitchell had run 
away from his wife’s tongue.” 

‘‘I’d like to show him what her tongue 
can do,” said Mrs. Twitchell, flushing. 
‘‘To which of my warm friends do I owe 
this ?” 

‘‘ No, I never mention names. But I 
think the gentleman had better look at 
home when he’s talking about women’s 
tongues. My girl came from his house 

to me, and she says that Mrs. used 

to have such tantrums that they some- 
times had to send for the doctor.” 

‘‘And Mrs. Shaffer is always sending 
over here to borrow things, and every 
year I help her about her jelly! Of 
course I know you mean the Shaffers.” 

‘‘I mention no names. I have been 
indignant enough at hearing these things, 
and have felt so sorry that I didn’t know 
where Mr. Twitchell was, and what he 
was doing, so that I might contradict 
these mean stories. As your nearest 
neighbor, people seem to expect me to 
know all about the matter, and they are 
suspicious of something wrong and mys- 
terious when I own, as I have to, my 
ignorance about it.” 

Mrs. Twitchell was wondering how 
she was to evade the communication 
thus urged, when the baby was obliging 
enough to tumble off the bed, calling the 
mother to the bed-room, and terminating 
the conversation. 

But the following day Mrs. Proudfoot 
resumed it, plunging at once medias 
res : ‘‘ Mrs. Twitchell, you ought not to 
be so reserved and mysterious concern- 
ing Mr. Twitchell’s whereabouts : you 
make people suspicious. Why, you’ve 
no idea how they are talking. They are 
saying every imaginable thing. Some 


MR. TWITCHELVS INVENTIONS. 


report that he’s gone off to the Shaker 
settlement, and is going to turn Shaker.” 

Mrs. Twitchell’s heart rose in her 
mouth: “What if this should prove 
true ?” 

“Then there is another report, that 
he’s gone off to the Mormons, and a 
lady, a friend of yours, told me that she 
knew it to be a fact that Mr. Twitchell 
is a Spiritualist, and she’d no doubt but 
that he’s gone off after an affinity. ‘ Mr. 
Twitchell’s a quiet man, not given to 
gallantries,’ I said. ‘ It’s these quiet 
men that take unaccountable freaks 
about women,’ she said. Why, they are 
saying all manner of things — that he’s 
insane, and that he has committed sui- 
cide. But he’s got his life insured — 
hasn’t he ? — so you’ll have something to 
fall back upon, if you can only get the 
body.” 

Mrs. Twitchell began to shed tears. 
These were not evoked by the thought 
of her husband with blood across his 
throat, for she didn’t believe his throat 
had any blood across it ; but her friends 
and neighbors were bandying her name 
and that of the father of her helpless 
children from mouth to mouth. She was 
a target for all the arrows of fortune and 
ihe world. 

And now the versatile Mrs. Proudfoot 
assumed the part of the compassionate 
friend : “ Dear Mrs. Twitchell, do relieve 
your heart by telling me your troubles. 
You’ll find me a faithful friend, who will 
never betray your confidence. You are 
sad — let me comfort you.” 

And Mrs. Twitchell opened her heart. 
She acknowledged that she was not only 
ignorant of her husband’s whereabouts 
and business, but was very anxious con- 
cerning them. She enlarged on the va- 
rious losses he had sustained, and the 
pecuniary embarrassments which har- 
assed them — on her plans for Sissy, and 
their disappointment. 

In the midst of the recital, and of tears 
which increased to torrents at certain pa- 
thetic passages, both ladies were startled 
by a voice almost in their ears : “ Good- 
afternoon, Mrs. Proudfoot. How d’ye 
do, Mandy ?” At the open window stood 
Mr. Twitchell. 


8s 

“Where under the canopy have you 
been ?” asked Mrs. Twitchell on the 
departure of Mrs. Proudfoot, who, after 
lingering at this first interview between 
husband and wife as long as decency 
would allow, went to give Mrs. Shaffer 
and Miss Slimmings an account of her 
conversation with Mrs. Twitchell. 

“Oh, I’ve been everywhere through 
the country.” 

“And what have you been doing ?” 

“ I’ve been seeing what I could see, 
and hearing what I could hear.” And 
all Mrs. Twitchell’s cross-questioning 
could elicit nothing further. 

“ The meat-bill and the grocer’s bill 
are in that table drawer, and Mr. Shep- 
herd has been here for the rent ; and the 
bills came in for your suit of clothes, 
and for Sissy’s furs, and for the empress 
cloth ; and the cow hasn’t had any bran 
for days.” 

Mrs. Twitchell enjoyed giving this 
information, or rather she enjoyed the 
thought of her husband’s embarrassment 
in hearing it. 

“We’ll catch up now. I’m engaged 
to keep books for Jewett & Anderson at 
eighty dollars a month.” 

“Well, that sounds sensible: I can 
understand that. And with my econo- 
my and management we can live on 
eighty dollars. I don’t mind working 
and pinching if we can only keep our 
ground — are not slipping back all the 
while.” 

Gradually the bills were all settled; 
the empress cloth was at last paid for, the 
financial wounds made by Mr. Twitchell’s 
inventions were healed over and forgot- 
ten ; and Mrs. Twitchell might have 
been a moderately happy woman, but 
that there was one thing she could not 
forget : her husband had been away for 
weeks, she knew not where, and engaged 
she knew not how ; and she was mad — 
to use a good Saxon word, warranted 
by Shakespeare — every time she remem- 
bered the quiet persistence with which 
he withheld his confidence from her. 

“ I would never let him rest till I found 
out,” said Mrs. Proudfoot, as much pro- 
voked by Mr. Twitchell’s obstinacy as 
the wife was. “ It isn’t treating you like 


86 


MR. TWITCHELUS INVENTIONS. 


a wife to withhold his confidence in this 
way. Why, I should go crazy if my 
husband had a secret from me. And 
there’s something rotten in Denmark 
when a husband has secrets from his 
wife.” 

June again rolled round, and with it, 
according to Mrs. Twitchell, Mr. Twitch- 
ell’s lunacy, for he one evening an- 
nounced his intention of taking a sec- 
ond ride through the country. Mrs. 
Twitchell almost lost her breath at the 
announcement. She felt like tearing 
her hair, or, better still, Mr. Twitchell’s. 

‘‘ Mr. Twitchell, are you insane ?” Mrs. 
T. panted in asking the question — her 
eyes glared. 

Mr. Twitchell might have retorted, 
‘‘Mrs. Twitchell are you insane?’’ — ‘‘I 
think not,” he answered. 

‘‘ Then what do you mean ?” 

‘‘ I can explain more satisfactorily when 
I return.” 

‘‘ Mr. Twitchell, you certainly are the 
most provoking man I ever knew — the 
most unreasonable — the most exaspe- 
rating. You are enough to drive any 
woman frantic. We are just beginning 
to make up for all that money you fool- 
ed away, and here you’re going to give 
up a good situation, and wander off. 
Goodness only knows where or what for. 
You need to have a guardian appointed : 
you certainly are deranged. And it’s 
no good that’s taking you off, or you 
wouldn’t keep it a secret from me.” 

‘‘Well, just get my things put up, 
please, and have me an early breakfast.” 

‘‘ I won’t put up your things, and I’m 
not going to run myself breathless to get 
your breakfast. Indeed, there’s nothing 
in the house for breakfast. I suppose 
you were so full of this insane or wicked 
project that you forgot the cutlets I ask- 
ed you to bring. And it’s very well you 
did — we shall not be able to have steak 
and cutlet breakfasts after this. You’ll 
have to breakfast to-morrow on bread 
and coffee.” 

‘‘Very well: ‘Better is a dinner of 
herbs,’ etc. — you know the rest.” 

‘‘Fiddlesticks !” 

It was Monday morning: Mrs. Twitch- 
ell was examining the pockets of her 


husband’s linen coat, previous to putting 
it in the wash. She came upon an en- 
velope, addressed in a dainty feminine 
chirography to ‘‘ T. Twitchell, Esq. :” it 
contained a sheet of fine paper. Mr. T. 
Twitchell’s wife opened it : she glanced 
at the signature — “Nettie.” Her eyes 

ran back to the “Dear T ” with 

which the' letter opened, and hungrily 
they devoured it to the end : 

“ Dear T : It seems like an eter- 

nity since our last fond meeting. Do you 
remember the words you breathed into 
my ear in our clinging farewell, as you 
kissed my eyes and lips : ‘ This Net 
has completely ensnared me ’ ? I am 
dying to see you. You must not let this 
month of sunshine, birds and flowers 
pass without making me a visit. I can- 
not send you a long letter, but write these 
few lines that you may not miss the cus- 
tomary reminder of your devoted Nettie. 

I am to have a large party to-night. I 
do not wish it, but mother insists. I 
would gladly give all I shall enjoy this 
evening for one look into your dear eyes. 
Come soon to your loving Nettie.” 

“This explains the mystery! He’s 
gone to this wicked girl. Oh, I wish I 
knew where to find them I I’d go and 
shoot them both. The wretches ! the 
villain ! He hasn’t kissed my eyes since 
before Sissy was born. ‘ Clinging fare- 
well I’ He didn’t even say good-bye to 
me and his children. The cruel, heart- 
less, merciless wretch 1 He’s actually 
taking the bread out of his children’s 
mouths to spend in his love-making. 
I’ll never live with him again 1 I’ll 
drown the children, and then drown 
myself I I’ll never live with him again 
— never !” 

She repeated the final declaration over 
and over during the sultry, oppressive 
days of July and August while Mr. 
Twitchell was away, and the table-draw- 
er was becoming plethoric with unreceipt- 
ed bills, and the children were living on 
bread and milk, and Sissy was teasing 
for a new summer hat, and Mrs. Twitch- 
ell was doing her own washing, and the 
kitchen was left unscrubbed, and the 
parlor undusted, and the fly-specked 


MR. TWITCHELVS INVENTIONS. 


87 


windows unwashed, and Mrs. Proudfoot 
and the neighbors were talking. The 
pressure was sore on brain and heart 
and hands, and the once so tidy little 
woman was growing careless in the 
weary weeks. 

One stifling morning, the twenty-sev- 
enth of August, Mrs. Twitchqll was con- 
ducting a baking. Her face was flushed, 
her hair disheveled — the waving brown 
hair that used to be dressed so neatly. 
Sissy, set to keep the baby away from 
the stove, was watching her mother’s 
movements with hungry eyes, though 
there was no savory odor of pies and 
cookies and doughnuts, so grateful to 
children’s olfactories. In the oven there 
were no gingerbread men or birds or ele- 
phants or thimble-biscuits on little pans, 
smuggled between the mother’s larger 
ones. It had been a long time since 
Sissy had exercised her skill in model- 
ing her ideals in cake-dough. None of 
the Twitchell aspirations ever rose now 
beyond plain yeast -bread, and even 
Sissy’s young eyes had noticed with 
vague uneasiness the sinking of the 
flour-mark in the barrel. 

Baby had just pulled a pitcher of milk 
from the table, the mother had burnt 
her right thumb, and the bread was run- 
ning over in the oven, which was below 
baking-heat — a result of Mrs. Twitch- 
ell’s effort to economize fuel. So her 
thoughts were fortunately preoccupied 
when Mri Twitchell appeared at the 
door. And he was in a very cheerful 
mood. “ Halloo, Sissy !” he cried ; and 
he cracked his whip about her ears en- 
thusiastically, but with some degree of 
awkwardness, which the child showed 
her perception of by dodging. “Well, 
Mandy, I’ve got back. Come, Baby, 
and kiss your papa.’’ 

The wife had planned, when her rec- 
reant husband should come into the 
house, to hold the Nettie letter before 
his eyes, to hiss in his ear, “Wretch ! vil- 
lain ! perjurer ! fiend !’’ and then to bid 
him go his way and leave his dishonor- 
ed, ruined family to themselves. But 
the letter was locked in a bureau-drawer 
up stairs; the children were climbing 
over papa ; she couldn’t very well tear 


them from his knee ; she didn’t choose 
that Sissy should witness the settling-up 
interview ; Mr. Twitchell looked so hap- 
py, so innocent of having done any 
wrong, so unconscious of the impending 
storm ; the spijt milk, the burnt thumb, 
the low fire, the imperiled bread made 
a bewildering complication. The injured 
wife was for the time being disarmed. 

“Your bread smells good: let me 
have something to eat, for I’m as hun- 
gry as a wolf.’’ 

“ I can’t leave my baking to get an 
extra meal : it’s only about an hour till 
dinner-time. Indeed, there’s nothing in 
the house to eat until this bread is 
baked. Your children have lived on 
bread for two months : I suppose you’ve 
been enjoying the fat of the land.’’ 

“And you and Sissy and Baby,’’ he 
cried, snatching up the little one and 
kissing the mottled face, “ shall hence- 
forth live on the fat of the land. The 
good-for-nothing old fellow has made 
some money at last, and a good pile of 
it too ; and that by one of his worthless 
inventions.’’ 

The injured wife, who had studiously 
kept her eyes averted from her faithless 
husband, now turned them surprised 
and inquiringly toward his face. For 
the moment she forgot her wrongs. 
“What do you mean ?’’ 

“I mean that I’ve got money and 
notes to the amount of fifty-seven thou- 
sand dollars, which I’ve collected in 
these eight weeks. You’re a rich wo- 
man, Mrs. Twitchell. See here. Sissy, 
take these to mother. That’s yours, my 
little woman, to buy you a home. There 
are twenty of them ; did you ever count 
money before in that way — five hundred 
dollars in a breath ?’’ 

Then you should have heard Mrs. 
Twitchell and Sissy — their exclamations 
and questions. 

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get 
something to eat. I’m hungry: won’t 
that ten thousand dollars buy me a 
dinner ?’’ 

“ But first get washed and put on some 
clean clothes. Sissy, look after Baby 
while I wait on your father.’’ 

When dinner was announced the table 


88 


MR. TWJTCHELUS INVENTIONS. 


was spread with a fresh white cloth, and 
by each plate was a glossy white napkin 
folded to a perfect square, which made 
Sissy ask if they were going to have 
company. There were hot biscuits, 
fragrant coffee, a juicy steak and crisp 
sliced cucumbers, the collecting of which 
viands had cost Sissy much running. 

“Now, this is tempting. We’ll have 
good things to eat after this, won’t we. 
Sissy ?’’ 

Mrs. Twitched had now sufficiently 
recovered herself to remember that she 
was an injured woman. She could not 
yet bring herself to sit at the table with 
the man who had wronged her. But 
then fifty-seven thousand dollars ! those 
twenty five -hundred -dollar bills! the 
children I She must take time to weigh 
carefully the whole matter before com- 
mitting herself to any course. So she 
busied herself about the bread and with 
washing the bread-pan, etc., until Mr. 
Twitched had sufficiently appeased his 
hunger to enter upon his story, which he 
did somewhat after this fashion : 

“You know when I went away last 
summer on that fool’s errand, as you 
called it, Mandy, I went in a buggy ? 
By a simple contrivance, which I had 
invented, I could detach that vehicle at 
an instant’s notice from the horse. It 
gives the driver, you see, complete ad- 
vantage over fractious horses and peril- 
ous situations. With a motion of the 
thumb and finger he can free the horse.’’ 

“Wed, now, I can see the sense of 
that invention.” 

“Wed, I drove off with a plan in my 
head, and at the first wagon-shop began 
to put it in operation. I stopped on the 
pretext of getting my horse shod. The 
wagonmaker stood watching me as I re- 
hitched the horse to the buggy. ‘ Why, 
what kind of a contrivance have you 
got there ?’ he asked, and he came out 
to the carriage. ‘A very simple con- 
trivance of my own invention,’ I said, 
‘for detaching the carriage from the 
horses ;’ and I went on to explain it to 
him. ‘ It’s so simple that any smith can 
easily manufacture it and adapt it to any 
vehicle.’ ” 

“ Why were you so imprudent as to 


ted him about it ? He might go and get 
it patented.” 

“ I had already secured my patent on 
it.” 

“But he could go to work and use 
your invention without paying for it, 
whereas you might have sold him a 
right.” 

“ I knew he could use it, and that’s 
just the thing I found he had done on 
my visit to him this summer. I had an 
officer with me, and we compromised 
with the carriage-maker for an infringe- 
ment of my patent to the tune of five 
hundred dollars. I drove ad around, 
everywhere, stopping at every carriage- 
shop, and managing to draw attention, 
without any parade, to my contrivance, 
and to explain its working : and it’s so 
simple, you see, so easily adapted to any 
vehicle, and at such a small expense, 
that it just took right along. There 
were only three men, out of the whole 
number I saw on the first round, who 
had not infringed my patent, and those 
three wanted to buy the right ; so I just 
went round and gathered in the green- 
backs by the handful. And this isn’t the 
last of it : I shad go on making money 
by this patent for years to come.” 

“It’s splendid!” said Mrs. Twitched; 
and in her admiration of her husband’s 
cleverness, and her pleasure in the gold- 
en-paved path opened before her, she 
almost lost sight of his guilt. She brought 
him a plate of hot buscuit, and asked to 
help him to another cup of coffee. 

“ I’ve come to ask your advice, Mrs. 
Proudfoot,” said Mrs. Twitched that 
afternoon. 

“You’ve always found me a true friend, 
Mrs. Twitched — glad to help you in any 
way possible.” Mrs. Proudfoot had 
heard of Mr. Twitched’s fortune, and 
was on the qtii vive for any advantage 
which might accrue from being Mrs. 
Twitched’s very good friend. 

Having told of her husband’s success, 
Mrs. Twitched, under the seal of strict 
secresy, confided to her neighbor the 
story of the love-letter found in Mr. 
Twitched’s coat -pocket — a procedure 
rather surprising, the reader must own, 
for Mrs. Twitched was a moderately 


MR. TWirCHELVS INVENTIONS. 


89 


prudent woman. But she was in sore 
perplexity, and she believed in Mrs. 
Proudfoot. 

The confidante was indignant, horri- 
fied : she shed tears of sympathy, but 
secretly she was pleased — just a little — 
at this skeleton in the house whose good 
fortune she could not see without some 
vexation and envy. 

“ Now, what would you do ?” 

“ Do ? I wouldn’t stay under the same 
roof with the man for a single night, and 
I’d apply for a di^^orce to-morrow.” Mrs. 
Proudfoot was very decided. ‘‘ Through 
good and evil report,” “till death shall 
us part,” would have been her rule (I 
believe) had the case been hers. Fifty- 
seven thousand dollars will out-argue a 
great deal of heartache. Wouldn’t it 
have been an enjoyable sight, Mrs. 
Proudfoot, the wreck of that fine Twitch- 
ell ship, which was sailing away with 
such prosperous winds ? 

“That’s just my feeling about it,” re- 
plied Mrs. Twitchell. “ Oh, I feel some- 
times as if I’d like to strangle him. The 
wretch ! I don’t believe I ever can live 
with him. But then the children ! — 
they’ll be brought to poverty and shame. 
When I think of them I almost make 
up my mind to feign ignorance of the 
whole matter.” 

“Well, I never could do that,” said 
Mrs. Proudfoot : “ I couldn’t keep such 
a thing shut up in my bosom. I’d have 
the satisfaction of telling him about it — 
of letting him know that I knew of his 
rascality. And you and the children 
won’t be brought to poverty : he’ll be 
compelled to provide to some extent for 
you. And anyhow, everybody is talk- 
ing of the way in which the money was 
made — by sharp practice. Mr. Twitchell 
put temptation in the way of these men, 
and drove hard bargains with them, 
every one is saying. So, if you should 
leave him, you’ll only be giving up ill- 
gotten gains.” 

“ I never thought of that before.” 

“And you’ll never be able to keep 
your secret from Mr. Twitchell : you'll 
some day get into one of your — I mean 
you’ll get excited — and let it all out. 
You’ll talk of it in your sleep : it’ll leak 


out by hints and unguarded words, and 
little admissions and denials. And by 
living with him you’ll get the credit of 
being as mean as he is.” 

The wife gave a long sigh : “ I shall 
decide the matter finally to-night. As 
to his being mean,” she continued on 
second thought, flushing and her eye 
kindling, “he’s no worse than many of 
his neighbors, if the truth was known.” 

Mr. Twitchell after tea went down 
street : Sissy was on the sidewalk enter- 
taining Celia Shaffer with accounts of her 
father’s fabulous wealth. Mrs. Twitchell 
got the baby to sleep at an early hour, 
and seating herself by its cradle in the 
dark, she resolved to look her trouble in 
the face, and by hard thinking to work 
into the light — to satisfy herself as to 
her best course. She thought over all 
that Mrs. Proudfoot had said, and more 
besides, and thought it over a great 
number of times. She put herself in 
every position that the combination of 
her circumstances could evolve. She 
was a rich woman, a poor woman ; her 
children were courted, they were scorned ; 
she was a strong, proud champion for 
integrity and the honor of the marriage 
bond — she was weak, mean, abject. 
Amid great perplexity she finally work- 
ed her way to an ultimate resolve : “ I 
must hold on to the money for the chil- 
dren’s sake.” Another period of hard 
thinking, and another resolve stood out 
defined : “ I must speak to him about 
this.” The final compromise : “ I’ll let 
him understand that I know of his in- 
fidelity, but I’ll forgive him on his prom- 
ise never again to see this wicked girl.” 

“Mandy!” Mr. Twitchell was call- 
ing. She groped her way into the din- 
ing-room, for the k mps were unlighted 
and the twilight had deepened into 
night. “What under the stars are you 
moping in this darkness for ? Most wo- 
men in your shoes would illuminate the 
house. You don’t seem to me half glad 
enough over your fortune. Why, you 
ought to see how polite people are to 
me ! And there are notices of my in- 
vention in both the evening papers; 
but don’t you believe, the Tribune at- 
tributes the whole thing to Thomas 


90 


MR. TWITCHELVS INVENTIONS. 


Tvvitchell, instead of Timothy!” As 
Mrs. Twitchell made no reply, but went 
on lighting the lamps, he continued: 
‘‘Thomas Twitchell is a young man, a 
teller in a National bank, and we are 
often confounded. He gets my letters, 
and I get his, and letters addressed to 
T. Twitchell are as apt to go wrong as 
right. I once opened a letter to him 
from his. sweetheart, and I do believe I 
forgot to remail that letter. Let me see : 
it was just before I left home, and I was 
so absorbed — who knows but I’ve made 
trouble between the lovers?” 

‘‘Oh, Tim!” Mrs. Twitchell put her 
face in her hands and cried. She hadn’t 
called him Tim since the first year of 
their marriage. 

Mr. Twitchell went over and sat down 
beside her : ‘‘Well, now, this looks more 
appreciative. Poor little wife ! you’ve 
had some hard times, but they are over 
now. I kept telling you I’d strike a 
mine some day.” 

‘‘Where did you get the idea ?” asked 
the wife, wiping her eyes and nose. 

Mr. Twitchell tapped his forehead 
with his right forefinger: ‘‘You didn’t 
believe in me, though. You didn’t be- 
lieve I’d ever strike oil.” 

‘‘Yes I did, too. Don’t you remember 
that I wrote to Margaret and Aunt Kem- 
ble that I meant to help them, and I 
bought the empress cloth and Sissy’s 
furs on the strength of my faith ?” 


‘‘Well, what is it you want to do for 
Margaret and Aunt Kemble ? How 
much money do you want?” and Mr. 
Twitchell took out his pocket-book. 

‘‘Well, let me reckon up a little: I 
think we’d better call the house fifteen 
thousand — we’ll hardly find a place to 
suit us for less ; then I shall want at 
least three thousand for furniture — that’s 
eighteen thousand ; then you must de- 
posit five thousand for each of the chil- 
dren — twenty - eight thousand. That 
leaves only twenty-nine thousand, and 
what’s the interest on that ? Naught’s 
naught, naught’s naught,naught’s naught 
— six times nine is fifty-four — six times 
two is twelve, and five is seventeen — 
seventeen hundred and forty dollars ! 
Why we can’t possibly live on that, and 
I’m determined that Sissy shall go to 
Italy. I don’t see how we can do any- 
thing for Margaret and aunt. You see 
when I wrote I expected the pump would 
bring a hundred thousand. I’ll make 
up a box for Margaret — I’ve a good 
many things that I sha’n’t want to take 
into the new house — and I’ll send aunt 
a nice cap, and Willie the drum.” 

‘‘ Oh no, Mandy : we must do better 
than that. We’ll send a hundred-dollar 
cheque to each family.” 

‘‘Perhaps it is best, though I think 
fifty dollars is plenty for aunt — she has 
only Willie to support.” 



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THE WORKS OF E. MARLITT. 


THE OLD MAM’SELLE’S SECRET. 

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GRANVILLE DE VIGNE; 

Or, Held in Bondage. A Tale of the Day. 
By “ Ouida.” i2mo. Cloth, j^i.50. 

" This is one of the most powerful and spicy 
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lific in light literature, has produced." 

STRATHMORE ; 

Or, Wrought by His Own Hand. By 
“Ouida.” i2mo. Cloth. $1.50. 

" It is a romance of the intense school, but it is 
written with more power, fluency, and brilliancy 
than the works of Miss Braddon and Mrs. Wood, 
while its scenes and characters are taken from high 
life." — Boston Tra7tscript. 

IDALIA. 

By “ Ouida,” author of “ Under Two Flags,” 
etc. i2mo. Cloth. ^1.50. 

“ It is a story of love and hatred, of affection 
and jealousy, of intrigue and devotion. . . We 

think this novel will attain a wide popularity, 
especially among those whose refined taste enables 
them to appreciate and enjoy what is truly beau- 
tiful in literature." — Albany Eveyiing journal. 

UNDER TWO FLAGS. 

A Story of the Household and the Desert. 
By “Ouida.” i2mo. Cloth. ^1.50. 

" No one will be able to resist its fascination 
who once begins its perusal." — Phila. Everting 
Bulletin. 

“ This is probably the most popular work of 
‘ Ouida.’ It is enough of itself to establish her fame 
as one of the most eloquent and graphic writers of 
fiction now living." — Chicago yournalof Commerce. 

PUCK. 

His Vicissitudes, Adventures, Observations, 
Conclusions, Friendships, and Philosophies. 
By “ Ouida.” i2mo. Cloth. ^^1.50. 

“ Its quaintness will provoke laughter, while the 
interest in the central character is kept up un- 
abated." — Albany yournal. 

" It sustains the widely-spread popularity of the 
author." — Pittsburg Gazette. 


WORKS. 

FOLLE-FARINE. 

By “ Ouida,” author of “ Under Two Flags,” 
etc. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.50. 

“ ' Ouida’s’ pen is a graphic one, and page after 
page of gorgeous word-painting flow from it in a 
smooth, melodious rhythm that often has the per- 
fect measure of blank verse, and needs only to be 
broken into line. There is in it, too, the eloquence 
of genius." — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

" This work fully sustains the writer’s previous 
reputation, and may be numbered among the be.st 
of her works.” — Troy Times. 

CHANDOS. 

By “ Ouida,” author of “ Strathmore,” etc. 
i2mo. Cloth. $1.50. 

" Those who have read these two last-named 
brilliant works of fiction (Granville de Vigne and 
Strathmore) will be sure to read Chandos. It is 
characterized* by the same gorgeous coloring of 
style and somewhat exaggerated portraiture of 
scenes and characters, but it is a story of sur- 
prising power and interest.” — Pittsburg Evening 
Chronicle. 

PASCAREL. 

By “ Ouida,” author of “ Strathmore,” 
“ Idalia,” “ Under Two Flags,” “ Trico- 
trin,” etc. i2mo. Cloth. $1.50. 

" A charming novel, far in advance of ‘ Ouida’s’ 
earlier novels." — London Athenceum. 

“ It is masterly as a romance.” — London Spec- 
tator. 

A LEAP IN THE STORM, 

And other Novelettes. By “ Ouida.” Two 
Illustrations. 8vo. Paper cover. 50 cents. 

" Those who look upon light literature as an art 
will read these tales with pleasure and satisfac- 
tion." — Baltimore Gazette. 

CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE, 

And other Stories. By “ Ouida.” i2mo. 
Cloth. ^^1.50. 

RANDOLPH GORDON, 

And other Stories. By “ OuiDA.” i2mo. 
Cloth. ^1.50. 

BEATRICE BOVILLE, 

And other Stories. By “ OuiDA.” l2mo. 
Cloth. ^1.50. 

" The many works already in print by this 
versatile authoress have established her reputation 
as a novelist, and these short stories contribute 
largely to the stock of pleasing narratives and 
adventures alive to the memory of all who are 
given to romance and fiction.” — New Haven 
yournal. 


*** For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of the price 
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THE LIVELIES, 

AND 

OTHER SHORT STORIES. 


BY 

SARAH WINTER KELLOGG. 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1875. 


PRICE 40 CENTS. 


J. B. Lippincott & Co.’s Eecent Publications. 


OHA-RMINa WORKS OF ROM_A.KCE. 


HULDA. 

A Novel. After the German of FAnny Le- 
WALD. By Mrs. A. L. Wister, Translator 
of ^ “ Only a Girl,” etc. Fifth Edition. 
i2mo. Fine cloth. ^1.75. 

“ One of the most healthful, fresh, delightful, and artist- 
ically-constructed novels that has appeared this season,” 
— Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

” A book thoroughly German in style and sentiment, 
and yet one which will command the universal sympathy 
of all classes of readers.” — Boston Globe. 


' THE SECOND WIFE. 

A Novel. After the German of E. Marlitt, 
author of “ The Old Mam’selle’s Secret,” etc. 
By Mrs. A. L. Wister. Eighth Edition. 
i2mo. Fine cloth. ^1.75. 

“A book charmingly written and delightfully trans- 
lated ; absorbing and fascinating from beginning to end.” 

” The ‘ Second Wife’ is at once an artistic literary labor 
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day Night. 


ISrA.RRATIVE AKE AEWEISTTURE. 


ROME AS IT IS. 

Being Remini.scences of a Visit to the “ City of 
the Caesars.” By Mrs. H. R. Scott, author 
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trations. i2mo. Extra cloth. ^1.50. 

” Her style is vivid, natural, and appreciative ; and her 
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visit Rome, and will be read with interest also by those 
who have no hope of doing so.” — Boston yottmial. 

“ This is a minute description of the Eternal City. It 
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Chicago Evening Jourttal. 


THE MAMBI-LAND; 

Or, Adventures of a Herald Correspondent in 
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“This volume furnishes more exact and practical infor- 
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York Triliine. 

“ The book is timely and entertaining, and will be read 
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arouse his sympathy are real, and the events narrated are 
true.” — Boston Journal . 


BIOGRAlRBEY akd history. 


MEMOIRS OF J. Q. ADAMS. 

Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, comprising 
portions of his Diary from 1795 1848. 

Edited by Hon. Charles Francis Adams. 
8vo. With Portrait. Vols. I. and H. now 
ready. Extra cloth. Each ^5.00. 

“ Contains more matter of historical interest than the 
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American. 

“ For the student of American history it is a really val- 
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PRESCOTT’S PERU. 

History of the Conquest of Peru. With a Pre- 
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By W. H. Prescott, Entirely New Edition, 
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i2mo. Extra cloth, ^2.25; sheep, ^2.75; 
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“ Perfect in all that pertains to the making of a book.” 

— New York Christian Union. 


SOIEKOE AKH EITER ATTIRE. 


THE UNIVERSE AND THE 
COMING TRANSITS. 

Presenting Researches Into, and New Views 
Respecting, the Constitution of the Heavens; 
together with an Investigation of the Condi- 
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cently confirmed by a unanimous Vote of the 
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Richard A. Proctor, B.A. (Cambridge), 
Honorary Fellow of King’s College, London. 
Illustrated by 23 Charts (4 colored), including 
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324,000 Stars. 8vo, Fine cloth. ^6,00. 

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years.” — Phila. Evening Telegraph. 

*** For sale by Booksellers generally, or will 
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An Index to Every Word Therein Contained. 
By Mrs. Horace Howard Furness. 8vo, 
With the Poems appended. Extra cloth. 
^4.00. 

“ It will be as valuable to readers of Shakespeare as is 
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At the end of the volume the entire poems are also printed, 
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such a book are worthy of the highest praise ; and the 
volume shows that Mrs. Furness is as devoted a Shakes- 
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plays has won the admiration of scholars and critics 
wherever the volumes issued have been received.” — Phila. 
Evening Bulletin. 

be sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of the price 


OUIDA^'S POPULAR NOVEILS. 

Bound in Extra Cloth, Black and Gilt Ornamentations. Price, $1.50 per Volume, 

CRAM VILLE DE V I G N E ; 

Or, HELD IN BONDAGE. A Tale of the Day. 

" 1 his is one of the most powerful and spicy works of fiction which the present centurv, so prolific in Hcrht litera> 
ture, has produced.” y > 

UNDER TWO FLAGS. 

A Story of the Household and the Desert. 


” No one will be able to resist its fascination who once 
begins its perusal.”— /VizVa. Evening- Bulletin. 

1 his is probably the most popular work of * Ouida.' 


It is enough of itself to establish her fame as one of the 
most eloquent and graphic writers of fiction now living.” 
— Chicago Jour^ial o/ Coininercc. 


FOLLE-FARINE 


" ‘ Ouida’s ' pen is a graphic one, and page after page 
of gorgeous word-painting flows from it in a smooth, me- 
lodious rhythm that often has the perfect measure of blank 
verse, and needs only to be broken into line. There is in it, 


too, the eloquence of genius.” — Phila. Evening Bullcti;:. 

“ This work fully sustains the writer's previous repu- 
tation, and may be numbered among the best of her 
works.” — Troy Times. 


STRATHMORE; 

Or, WKOIKtHT by HIS OWN HAND. 

” It is a romance of the intense school, but it is written I of Miss Braddon and Mrs. Wood, while its scenes and 
with more power, fluency, and brilliancy than the works | characters are taken from high life.” — BostonTranscript 

T R i C OT R I N. 

The Story of a Waif and Stray. With Portrait of the Author from an Engraving on Steel. 

“The book abounds in beautiful sentiment, expressed I attractive, and will be read with pleasure in every house- 
in a concentrated, compact style which cannot fail to be | hold.” — San Francisco Times. 

C H A N D O S. 


“ Those who have read Granville de Vigne and Strath- 
more will be sure to read Chandos. It is characterized 
by the same gorgeous coloring of style and somewhat 


exaggerated portraiture of scenes and characters, but it is 
a story of surprising power and interest.” — Pittslmrg 
Evening Chronicle. 


PUCK. 

His Vicissitudes, Adventures, Observations, Conclusions, Friendships, and Philosophies. 

“Its quaintness will provoke laughter, while the interest the central character is kept up unabated.” — 
Albany yournal. i I 

B E B E E, 

Or TWO LITTLE WOODEN SHOES. 

“ Simplicity and pure nature, unmarred by sensation- | “One of the most tenderly beautiful stories we ever 
alism of any kind, make the story as excellent as anything 
Ouida has written.” — Philadelphia North American. 


read.” — Boston Literai-y World 


ID ALIA. 


“ It is a story of love and hatred, of affection and jeal- 
ousy, of intrigue and devotion. . . We think this novel 

will attain a wide popularity, especially among those 


whose refined taste enables them to appreciate and enjoy 
what is truly beautiful in literature.” — Albany Evening 
yournal. 


PASO AREL. 

“A charming novel, far in advance of ' Ouida’s' earlier novels.” — London Athenmidt. 

“ It is masterly as a romance.” — London Spectator. 

BEATRICE BOVILLE, 

AND OTHEB STOBIES. 


“The many works already in print by this versatile 
authoress have established her reputation as a novelist, 
and these short stories contribute largely to the stock of 


pleasing narratives and adventures alive to the memory 
of all who are given to romance and fiction.” — Beiv 
Haven yournal. 


RANDOLPH GORDON, 

AND OTHER STORIES. 

“ Our word for it, it is full of sparkle, dramatic situation, and sharp characterization. We have never yet seen a 
dull page from ‘ Ouida.’ "—New Orleans Picayune. 

A LEAF IN THE STORM, 

AND OTHER NOVELETTES. 

With Two Illustrations. 8vo. Paper cover. '50 cents. 

“ Those who look upon light literature as an art will read these tales with pleasure and satisfaction. '-Balti- 

’""""“CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S CAGE, 

AND OTHER STORIES. 

For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of the price by 

25, I^IPriNCOTT CO., rvitolislxers, I»liilaclclplxi». 


POPULAR OCTAVO NOVELS, 

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MUST IT BE? A Romance. 
Carl Detlef. With Illustrations. 

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great vigor and picturesqueness of style. It has som'e 
charming domestic scenes, in addition to a number of in- 


Ti'anslated from the Germaii of 

Cloth. $1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

tensely dramatic situations. The plot is exceedingly well 
managed, and the descriptions of Russian character, man- 
ners and scenery are particularly happy.” — Boston Globe. 

A GREAT LADY. A Romance, Erom the German of Van 

Dewall. By MS. With Illustrations. Cloth. $1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

” The story is exciting and told in fascinating style, and “The story is told with charming simplicity, and is 

is well illustrated with full-page engravings.” — Philada. well worth perusal.” — New York Graphic. 

Ev. Bulletin. 

NOT PRETTY, BUT PRECIOUS, and other Short Stories. 

By John Hay, Clara F. Guernsey, etc. Paper. 50 cents. 

” Is a delightful little companion for leisure hours.” — Philada. Trade Circular. 

SEED TIME AND HAR VEST; Or, During My Apprentice- 

ship. Translated from the Platt-Deutsch of Fritz Reuter. Cloth. ^1.50. 
Paper. 


ii.oo 

It is a book that will be read with the greatest interest, 
not alone from the fact that it is one of the best works of 
one of the most popular of German novelists, but also be- 
cause it is strong and fresh in characterization, the various 


personages in the novel being drawn with a minuteness 
and fidelity to nature that is rarely attainable.” — Boston 
Traveller. 


ERMA'S ENG A GEMENT. By the Author of “ Blanche Sey- 

mour,” etc. Cloth. $1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 


pend upon the plot but the plot is intensely interesting. 
The story is one that the novel reader will enjoy.” — 
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“ A charming love story, pleasantly told and leaving 
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B LANCHE SEYM OUR. By the Author of'' Er^ncis Engage- 

ment.” Cloth. ^1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

“ Like its predecessor, it is full of animation and interest, and devoid of the lower lines of sensational appeal.” — 
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BEYOND THE BREA HERS. A Story of the Present Day. 

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R O OKS T ONE. By Katherine S. Macquoid. With Illustratio 7 is. 

Cloth. $1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

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DOROTHY EOX. By the Author of " Hei^o Carthewl With 

Illustrations. Cloth. ^1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

charming all hearts, and she will charm all readers. . . 

We wish ‘Dorothy Fox’ many editions.” — London 
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trations. Cloth, ^1.25. Paper. 75 cents. 

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ARTICLE 47 . A Romance. From the French of Adolphe Belot. 

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*' An able translation of this brilliant and celebrated story, whose thrilling incidents and vivid scenes will amply 
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KITTY' S CH OICE. A Story of Berry town. By Rebecca 

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THE HEIR OF MALREWARD ; Or, Restored. By the 

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For sale by all Booksellers, or sent by mail, on receipt of price, by 

J. B. LilPPIIVCOTT & CO., Publisbers, Pbiladelplila. 




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